The Unconventional Tale of Aragorn and Arwen
by Laziness Incarnate
Summary: And they lived happily ever after, except when husband-abuse occurs. CHAPTER 12 UPLOADED! Good lordy, it's a miracle. [On-going]
1. Love Somewhat Eternal

**

Chapter 1: Love Somewhat Eternal

**

  


In the house of Elrond Half-Elven, young Aragorn came upon Arwen Undomiel and fell deeply in love at first sight even though he had no idea what her personality was like and she might be a real shrew. But he likened her loveliness and sweetness to that of Luthien of old, and like Beren he cried out: 

"Tinuviel! Tinuviel!" 

The vision of beauty turned to him, her luscious lips parting to convey such words as he longed to hear. 

"Oh please. Do you know how many times I have heard that line?" 

Aragorn was taken aback. "Er…um…" 

"Six hundred and fifty-two times." 

There really wasn't much he could say to that, so he fell down upon his knees, clasped his hands to his breast, and went with his original plan. 

"Milady, your beauty has enthralled me-" 

"Yes, I know you are now completely in love with me, you wish to worship my star-kissed face, and on and on. I have that effect on people." 

Aragorn felt his young, gentle heart breaking. 

"So then…you love me not?" 

"Of course not, silly mortal." 

Oh, how could a voice so lovely be so cruel? 

"I shall…take my leave, then." 

"You do that." 

And he did.

  


* * * * *

  


"You again! Will you please desist from your ceaseless pursuit of me?" 

"Milady, it has been nine and twenty years since I last saw you!" 

"Exactly." 

"…Anyway, I came upon you by chance today. I had no idea you were here." 

"I am visiting my mother's parents, the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn." 

"I see. So, do you love me now?" 

"Not really. Go away." 

"Have you noticed that I have aged but little since we last parted?" 

"Not really. I pay little heed to humans." 

"Have you noticed that I am Isildur's heir, and have rightful claim to the throne of Gondor?" 

"Not rea--what did you say?" 

And thus, on a midsummer's day under the golden eaves of Lothlorien, Aragorn son of Arathorn won the love of Arwen Undomiel forever more.

  



	2. Applying Oneself

Author's Note: You'll notice I've changed the title of Chapter 2, and given the old title to Chapter 3. Sorry if I've confused anyone!   


* * *

  


**

Chapter 2: Applying Oneself

**

  


Aragorn had overcome the first barrier to claiming Arwen as his wife, but a far greater obstacle still lay in his path: her stodgy father, Elrond Half-Elven. To appease him, Aragorn must: (1) defeat evil in Middle Earth, and (2) become king of Gondor and Arnor. 

Arwen was fond of telling him that a king must know how to delegate. So Aragorn put words into practice. 

"Frodo, will you take this ring and throw it into Mount Doom for me?" 

"Sure." 

Having solved problem 1, Aragorn worked long and hard at problem 2. Fortunately, Arwen came to Minas Tirith to aid him with the intellectual work. 

"You mean you have never written a resume before? How do you expect to become king without a resume?" 

Aragorn was abashed. "It is not a task a ranger usually encounters." 

"Oh, stop it with the scruffy ranger act. You must behave like a king and know the duties of a king if I am ever to become queen. I will show you how to make a convincing resume." 

"Thank you, beloved. I am always in your debt." 

"I know. Now, what is most important for this position is your leadership experience. List off some of those." 

"Well, I led the Fellowship of the Ring for a bit while Gandalf was, er, dead." 

Arwen wrote that down, but frowned slightly (a very pretty frown that did not mar her perfect features, mind you). "Do you not have any experience leading large groups of Men? Escorting a small and grubby group of travellers hardly leads to strong administrative and organizational ability." 

Aragorn thought long and hard. "I led the Dead from Erech-" 

"I meant live Men." 

"Ah! I remember now. I once guised and named myself Thorongil, and under this identity counselled Ecthelion, father of Denethor, and led forces of Men to victory." 

"Were you well-received as Thorongil?" 

"Yes, except by Denethor." 

"And he is dead. Perfect. Now, tell me about your education…" 

And so, the two worked into the long hours of the night, Arwen's delicate white hands labouring as no Elf maiden's hands should labour, all for the sake of her Aragorn.

  



	3. Call Me Queen!

Author's Note: You'll notice I've changed the title of Chapter 2, and given the old title to this chapter. I figured it fit these scenes better. Sorry if I've confused anyone!   


* * *

  


**

Chapter 3: Call Me Queen!

**

  


"Arwen, Arwen!" exclaimed Aragorn joyfully, entering her guest quarters with a quick step. "I am king! I have just been coronated! They gave me this very interesting hat with wings on it! Where were you, by the way?" 

Arwen was, strangely, flushed and agitated, wringing her hands while clutching a letter tightly. 

"Never mind that now. My father is coming!" she announced wretchedly. 

Aragorn immediately went pale. "Oh…dear." 

"Yes, 'oh dear,' what a fat lot of help you are. What are we going to do?" 

"Pray to Elbereth?" he suggested. 

"I wish I had not asked for your ideas," she pronounced cuttingly. "There is no choice, then--we must be married at once." 

As Aragorn had been trying to convince her to marry him for the last seventy-some years, he latched onto this idea readily. "Then I will ask the cooks to prepare a feast in two days time, shall I?" he said enthusiastically. 

"No, I said we must be married _at once_." 

Grabbing his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, Arwen dragged him out of the White Tower, through the city, and onto the field just beyond the gates where Aragorn had been crowned king. A large quantity people were still milling about, including a handful of trumpeters, a goodly number of guards, and Faramir. 

"Faramir!" Arwen called out fretfully. 

Surprised, the steward turned to Arwen with her baggage of Aragorn and said, "Milady, what is it that you wish?" 

"You must marry us at once!" she cried. 

"Er, I do not believe that would be proper," the steward answered, bewildered. "I admit my knowledge of Elves is lacking, but I understood that no more than two people may be joined in marriage--" 

"Not marry with us!" she yelled in exasperation. "I want you to perform the ceremony to pronounce Aragorn and myself to be married!" 

"Oh. That _is_ highly preferable over the former, no offence." 

"Quickly, we must do it now!" 

A knowing gleam entered Faramir's eyes. "Ah, so you are that eager to do 'it,' milady." 

Arwen made a strangled noise that spoke of intense rage. Mercifully, Aragorn intervened before she went for the steward's throat. 

"Faramir, you shall marry us this instant. It is imperative that we are joined before the end of this day!" 

"As you wish, my king," said Faramir more somberly. 

  


* * * * *

  


After calling back most of the people who had been involved in the coronation, including the Fellowship, Faramir set up a passable wedding service with himself heading the ceremony. Unfortunately, he insisted on reading a full Numenorean lay before he would even begin the main ceremony. With every unnecessary Andunaic word that passed his lips, Arwen's grip on Aragorn's hand became more painful. 

Not to mention the fact that the lay was an extraordinarily bad one. 

Meanwhile, Aragorn's knees, no longer those of a young man, were pained from kneeling for so long. He had a niggling suspicion that Faramir enjoyed seeing his king kneel before him, for the first and last time, and was purposely drawing out this torture of waiting. 

Fortunately, Faramir sped through the end of the lay once he realized the odd reddish glint in Arwen's eyes was not a reflection of the setting sun. Then he read out the vows that Arwen had scribbled on a dinner napkin two minutes before the beginning of the ceremony. 

"King Elessar, will you do whatever is needed in all matters of personal and legislative significance in order to please your wife?" 

"I will." 

"Lady Arwen, will you remain beautiful and perfect forever?" 

"I will it so." 

"Er...and thus the twain are joined in marriage most sacred; moreover, they are bound to serve Gondor and all her people for all their lives, and Gondor's people are in turn bound to serve them. Now, bring forth the symbol of vows unbreakable!" 

At this point three things happened in quick succession. One, Bergil began to walk down the aisle bearing a glass case with a pair of gold rings inside it. Two, Elrond and his entourage appeared in the arched doorway, silhouetted dramatically against the setting sun in the west. Three, Frodo, who was standing amidst the crowd, went completely ballistic and jumped Bergil, screaming something about his Precious and frothing in a most disturbing fashion. 

"No, master! Bad master!" yelled Sam. 

"Oh, I feel a headache approaching," muttered Arwen. 

"What is going on?" demanded Elrond. 

"Granddaughter, is this what I think it is?" asked Galadriel sternly. 

"Get it off! Get it off!" bawled Bergil. 

"That is a very nice hat, Aragorn," commented Celeborn with remarkable aplomb. 

"Thank you," the king replied. "I like it too."

  


* * * * *

  


Once Frodo had been placated with a pyrite ring to gnaw on, and a blubbering Bergil had been sent to the Houses of Healing for a long stay, Aragorn and Arwen were able to speak in private with Elrond and Galadriel (Celeborn was off eating hors d'oeuvres). 

"You are late, father," said Arwen smugly. "We are already married!" 

"And I am king of Gondor, so all goes well according to our agreement," said Aragorn in a more conciliatory tone. 

Elrond was wroth, however, and no mere words could appease him. "You should have waited for our arrival! I dread to think what hasty and foolish vows you might have made in this human city!" 

"I think," said Galadriel coolly, "that you must appease us before we approve this union. Otherwise…we will _visit_ you at all inconvenient times throughout your married lives!" 

Aragorn and Arwen gasped in synchronicity. The Lady of the Golden Wood certainly did not make idle threats! Not for naught did Arwen fear her relatives; the curse of the frequently-visiting in-laws was a terrible fate for any married couple. 

"However, there may be a way to avoid an outcome that, I think, would be mutually unpleasant for both parties. If you were to offer us recompense…" Galadriel suggested. 

"Ah yes, recompense. That would be satisfactory," said Elrond. 

Aragorn was puzzled. What could he give that would compensate for the loss of Arwen, the child of the highest-born Elves left on Arda, the most beauteous Elf-maiden to grace Middle Earth since Luthien? 

Arwen, on the other hand, understood her father and grandmother perfectly. She had had to live with these people for centuries, after all. 

"I think two chests, one filled with pure gold and the other with gemstones, would be enough?" she offered. 

"Methinks that is a rather miserly gift from the queen of the most prosperous kingdom in Middle Earth," countered Galadriel deftly. "I believe your coffers can stand to do without…two caravans worth of platinum and white jewels." 

Arwen's face betrayed no shock, whereas Aragorn's body began to show traces of an apoplectic fit coming on. 

"That is rather a lot," he said quietly, but all the Elves ignored him. 

"One caravan, filled with gold and diamonds," said Arwen in a steely voice. 

"One and a half!" answered Galadriel. 

"One and a quarter!" 

"One and a third!" 

"Done!" said Arwen, and the two women suddenly laughed while the males stood by, bewildered. 

"This is why I made Celebrian come to Rivendell," muttered Elrond. Then he turned to Aragorn, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "Well, my son, you have won Arwen Evenstar, for good or for ill. Be glad you only have to live with her for another hundred years of so." 

"I heard that, father!" laughed Arwen gaily. "Now, shall we attend the wedding feast?" 

"What wedding feast?" wondered Aragorn, still dazed. 

"Why, the one I asked Faramir to prepare for us! I also had him hire the finest musicians in the city and arrange gifts for all the guests. I am afraid I forgot to inform you, your Highness," she teased lightly, taking hold of his arm. 

"Oh. You did all that by yourself?" 

"Of course. Am I not queen?" 

"Yes, you are," said Aragorn, exchanging a look with Elrond, who was patiently listening to Galadriel prattle on about arriving in the Undying Lands with more wealth than any other Elf. "Yes, you are."

  


* * *

  


Author's Notes: Married, finally! Regarding Galadriel and Elrond's mercenary nature--well, Arwen, had to get it from somewhere, yes? Next episode will guest-star the Fellowship, minus Gandalf. They'll help Aragorn find the bachelor within--at least for a little while. 

Addendum! I forgot to thank Lady MR () for her suggestions about showing the wedding and having Elrond be all belligerent and overprotective. Thank you muchly!

  



	4. Male Bonding

**Chapter 4: Male Bonding**

  


"I will raise you a farthing's worth of Longbottom Leaf, " said Aragorn cautiously. 

Merry, after taking a swig of ale, was more confident. "Call, and raise you a full pouch of Old Toby." 

"Ho ho! We might as well not beat around the bush, gentlemen? I will see your bet, and raise a whole kilo of Southern Star!" 

"Pippin, you nut!" exclaimed Sam. "I fold." 

"I fear I must fold," said Frodo. 

"Fold," grunted Gimli. 

"Call, and raise a barrel of, um, something." 

"A barrel!" 

"Legolas, that is your entire supply of weed!" 

"I do not care for the stuff, and all of your incessant smoking makes me ill, so why must I let this continue overlong? If you should call my bet this game will end all the sooner and I can leave the foul air of this room." 

"Well, I refuse to play for such ungentlemanly interests. I fold!" 

"Fold." 

"Fold." 

"It appears that Legolas has won, then." 

"What a pity that ploy did not work," the Elf murmured, gathering up his winnings with a sigh. 

"Are you certain that you are not like a certain wizard who smoked in secret, Master Elf?" 

"Quite certain, Master Dwarf. You may search my dwelling, or lay waste to it as was done to Isengard, and you will find no similar hoard of pipe-weed to 'liberate' and transport back home for your personal store." 

"There _are_ perks to being a king" stated Aragorn blandly. 

"Shall we play another round?" queried Frodo. 

"Wait, we would like to see Legolas' cards first," Pippin declared, but the Elf had already begun shuffling his hand into the deck. 

"I think," said Aragorn shrewdly "that our dear Elf is not the poker virgin that he pretends to be. You must have played the game sometime in the last two thousand years!" 

"Speaking of virgins," said Legolas, ignoring the insinuations about his suspicious poker skills and starting to deal out a new hand, "how are you getting on with Arwen?" 

Aragorn coloured as every face in the room swiveled toward him expectantly. 

"I…that is…" 

"No need to be shy, Your Highness!" 

"A man must boast after acquiring a wife such as yours, even if she did make you wait seventy years." 

"Is she good in bed?" 

"Pippin!" 

"Well, is she?" 

"I imagine not," said Legolas casually. 

Every head in the room, including Aragorn's, swung around to stare curiously at the Elf. 

"Why do you say that, Legolas?" 

"Is it an Elvish thing?" 

"It is," answered Legolas, and Aragorn tensed with dread, thinking of his wife. "Elves, you see…they do not take pleasure in lovemaking." 

All around the table, hobbits and dwarf and man gasped in sympathetic unison, though Aragorn's gasp had a choking aspect to it. He stared dumbly at Legolas' calm expression. 

"That is dreadful, lad." Gimli shook his head sadly. 

"I am _so_ sorry for your loss," said Merry, patting Legolas on the shoulder comfortingly. 

Pippin snorted ungracefully. "As if you have any experience in this manner!" 

"I do!" retorted Merry, glaring at the younger hobbit. "Fool of a Took! Do not meddle in the affairs of mature hobbits, for they are subtle and-" 

"Very hairy," said Frodo unexpectedly, inspiring a long fit of snickering and jokes about hobbit bedroom practices. 

Aragorn avoided getting the giggles, however, because he was too busy having a panic attack. He said loudly, "To return to our topic-" 

"Which was…?" 

"Hairy hobbits?" 

"No, I think it was Elves." 

"Hairy Elves?" 

"No, deprived Elves." 

This led to another session of patting Legolas on the back and offering heartfelt words of consolation, none of which moved Aragorn any closer to his goal. 

"We were talking about ME!" he shouted and wished he hadn't, because the odd swiveling heads effect again resulted in a lot of faces staring him down unnervingly 

"Oh yes, we were talking about your love life, or lack thereof, were we not?" 

"Details! Give us details! Please, Aragorn, we absolutely _must_ know!" Pippin simpered, eliciting more sniggers. 

"Legolas," addressed Aragorn, deciding to avoid the giggling fools and go for the best source of information directly, "You say that Elves care not for lovemaking? Is this true?" 

"I am afraid it is," said the Elf gravely. 

Aragorn could feel his face go numb. "But surely, she is centuries old, she must know something about what men and women do in the bedroom…like you and your two thousand years experience with poker! She must know something! Why did she not tell me about this?" he sputtered. 

"Aragorn, are you having trouble with Arwen…?" Gimli inquired delicately. 

Thankfully, Aragorn did not have to answer that question in words, for at that moment, Arwen herself stormed into the musty storeroom the Fellowship had turned into an improvised gambling hall. Taking in the sight of the playing cards and the smoke and the flagons of ale and the opened barrels of pipe-weed with distaste, she fixed her piercing, venomous gaze on her husband and uttered in a terrible voice: 

"What are you doing?" 

Aragorn was reduced to a gibbering wreck. 

"Er, ah, nothing, yes, only sitting around and having a talk about our adventures not playing poker or smoking at all, ha ha, and reminiscing about the good old times and-" 

"Wasting your time," Arwen cut in wrathfully. She grabbed Aragorn's hood (he had been wearing his old Ranger clothes for the occasion) with a lightning-fast movement that made Legolas jealous (though we would not admit it) and dragged the king of Gondor out of the storeroom on his behind, kicking over a tub of pipe-weed for good measure. And then they were gone. 

Amid the stunned silence, Gimli whispered, "I guess that answered my question." 

"Oh yes," said Merry and Pippin together. 

"It was very…" began Frodo. 

"Interesting," finished Sam. 

"Yes, it was," spoke Legolas. "And it will be."

  


* * *

  


Author's note: This was a rather different episode, because it focused on the Fellowship, but male bonding is an important part of marriage, right? Right? Even if this is a pretty tame male bonding session, but this is LotR, and I don't think they have football games and strippers yet. And where is Gandalf, you ask? Off doing something suspicious with Galadriel, methinks. No one knows whither the Grey Pilgrim wanders. 

Anyhoo, I've tried to drop some not-so-subtle hints that something is amiss in this male-bonding session. The trickster will be revealed in the next chapter! Isn't it exciting? …What do you mean you already know who it is? Bah humbug! 


	5. Sex Lies of the Rich and Famous!

**

Chapter 5: Sex Lies of the Rich and Famous!

**

  


Aragorn was perturbed. 

Ever since he'd learned from Legolas that elves have no inclination toward lovemaking, Aragorn had begun to doubt that his marriage with Arwen was as idyllic as he had supposed it to be. While he was certain that Arwen would (eventually) oblige him whenever his desire was too great, he was less certain she would continue to do so for the next hundred or so years, especially when he started to become old and wrinkly. Aragorn did not doubt her generosity, of course, but putting out all the time when uninterested could be very tedious, he knew. That time with Eowyn, for example-- 

Thankfully, Aragorn was unable to complete that thought because, at that moment, Arwen waltzed into the bedroom and sat herself in her favorite spot--in front of the vanity. 

"Dearest, would you be so kind as to polish this mirror for me," she asked, examining her reflection suspiciously. "There is a blemish upon it that is most unnerving. It makes my face appear almost imperfect!" 

Aragorn moved as if to wipe the imaginary spot away, but stopped suddenly. Here he was, all flustered and obviously upset, and yet Arwen heeded him not! He began to feel, for the first time, anger toward his lady. He took a trembling breath and answered heatedly, "No, I will…I will not polish your mirror! Why must I trail after you, my wife, who gives me naught but cold refusals?" 

Arwen turned from her reflection and stared at him in amazement. 

"In fact," he said, heating up with confidence, "why did you marry me at all if you are willing to give me nothing? Does not a wife own a duty toward her husband?" 

Arwen stood and began gliding toward him silkily. Aragorn, slightly intimidated but resolute, continued on the road to imminent doom. Desperation drives men to great lengths, after all. 

"And worst of all, you deceived me! You let me pursue you for years uncountable, you let me risk my life saving Middle Earth for you, you let me _marry_ you, and yet you never told me that Elves are averse to lovemaking!" 

Aragorn heaved with fury, his eyes grey stormclouds, while Arwen drew near to him. She brought her face close to his; her breath was very warm. 

"Now where," she breathed, leaning into him, "where did you get the idea that Elves care not for the delights of the bedroom?" 

Aragorn's eyes grew very wide. "Legolas said so," he managed to squeak. 

"Interesting," she murmured, grabbing hold of his tunic. "You are quite alluring when you are inflamed, did you know?" 

He barely dared to hope. "So then, you want to…?" 

"Very much," she replied, reaching downwards. 

"Oh," was all he could say. "OOooohh…"

  


* * * * *

  


Aragorn was no longer perturbed. 

"That was very good," he mumbled to the lovely creature in his arms. 

"Naturally," she replied, sighing contentedly. Then she fell silent for a long moment, and Aragorn decided now would be a good time to sleep, as he could not perform again tonight. 

But just as he was drowsing off, Arwen suddenly said, "So Legolas had you thinking Elves have no taste for lovemaking?" 

"Mm hmm." 

"How easily taken you are," she laughed softly, trailing her arm up his chest. "Elves are actually quite uninhibited, even to the point that most of us will bed both males and females." 

Aragorn suddenly did not feel tired at all. "What did you say?" 

"Most Elves find both sexes attractive." 

"A Elbereth," he muttered darkly, "no wonder Legolas would watch me as I bathed myself in the river." Then a more intriguing thought hit him. He stared at Arwen as if seeing her anew and gasped, "Do you, then, like women in that way?" 

"Of course. Women are much prettier than men." 

"Would you be averse to another woman joining us?" 

"Not at all." 

"Yes!" exclaimed Aragorn, feeling as if he had scored a point for males everywhere. "You have made me so happy, darling…now who should the third be? It is a pity that Eowyn is married--" 

"Eowyn!" said Arwen sharply. 

"Oops." 

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with that horse wench!" 

"You misheard me, I said, er, Eothain--" 

"I know what I heard, you said Eowyn!" she screeched, beating him wrathfully with a pillow. "Get out! Get out before I turn you into something unnatural!" 

Aragorn, being a love-sick fool but not an idiot, got out just in time to avoid the flying kerosene lamp. 

* * *

Author's Notes: 

Well, isn't this an odd episode. Not very funny, perhaps, and I had to up the rating because of the implicit sex, but I figured Aragorn could use a break, however short it is. Now I have to think up some wicked Arwen vengeance… 


	6. Revenge, Served Cold

**

Chapter 6: Revenge, Served Cold

**

  


Arwen was not perturbed. She was enraged, incensed, furious. But, since last night, she had allowed her frenzied anger to simmer into a useful sort of drive, and was now ready to confront the day quite normally. 

As was her custom in the morning, she sat herself and surveyed her prioritized 'to do' list, making additions and removing items where necessary. One of the entries that she crossed off looked like this: 

_--Revenge myself upon Elladan and Elrohir for stealing doll and burying her in the horse muck on my two thousand and eightieth birthday._

Yesterday morning she had succeeded in paying back that particular debt by secretly pouring blue fabric dye in her brothers' bottles of bath oils. At the same time she had managed to take care of the item _Get Elladan and Elrohir to leave Minas Tirith, they are disrupting the guards and being general nuisances_. Last evening, after their customary two-hour baths, the twins had ridden out of the city under cover of darkness, heavily cloaked and embarrassedly saying they had an 'important mission' to attend to. 

Yes, yesterday had been a productive day, and she had been in such exceptionally good spirits that she had generously made Aragorn very, very happy. But now…oh, he would pay, the lying scoundrel. Gotten over Eowyn indeed! Merely 'friends' indeed! And the audacity of that low- born whore--she would regret showing her hated face in the White City! 

Arwen wrote in the top spots on her list: 

_--Revenge myself most terribly upon Elessar for dallying with the Horse Wench _

--Revenge myself most terribly upon the Horse Wench for toying with husband 

These items would take priority over everything else, even _Send for decent elven cooks from Imladris, demote current cooks to assistant cooks, dismiss current assistant cooks_ and _Acquire new wardrobe, fashion looking very good this decade_ and _Force Fellowhip to leave city soon, hobbit eating habits strain on budget, Gimli is eyesore_ and _Revenge myself mildly upon Faramir for purposely annoying me at wedding_. Arwen frowned slightly, reading this last item and wondering if there was some way to deliver retribution to the Steward, the King, and the Horse Wench all at once. 

Then insight struck her suddenly and lo, it was good. 

A few minutes passed. An elven attendant, arriving to help Arwen dress, was ordered to fetch some writing samples and other very specific pieces of information. The attendant, being no niggard, did exactly as she was told. She had seen Arwen in this frame of mind before, and knew that obeying unquestioningly until the queen regained her mental stability was the best way to remain alive and employed. And at least attending to the task would get away from that soft, disturbing laughter.

  


* * * * *

  


Legolas had felt a shadow of threat growing in his mind for days, and it had given him some nasty headaches, but he had not suspected that its cause would be something as terrible as Arwen's wrath. 

"Hail, Legolas, son of Thranduil!" she pounced, appearing suddenly and blocking his path. "I would have words with you, if you have no urgent business this morning?" Before he could answer, she took firm hold of his arm and pulled him into a nearby conference room that was conveniently (even suspiciously) empty. 

"My queen, what--" he sputtered, once they were safely ensconced within. 

"You owe me a favor," she cut in briskly, "for you have been spreading certain…tales about the Elves. I do not take kindly to deception." 

Legolas paled slightly. So, she had found him out. He cleared his throat and said nervously, "Queen Arwen, I know my conduct was questionable, but I had only wished to rid myself of some human women who have been pestering me of late. I had deemed my method of evasion quite harmless, you see. 

"Harmless?" she said shrewdly, watching his reactions with a careful eye. "You would have me believe that you thought it harmless to feed my husband lies? You believed it would not impinge upon me?" 

"No no, I did not mean to cause a rift between you and the king! I merely thought that, well, that it would be amusing…" he finished lamely. 

She gave him a long glare that made him shift uncomfortably, Elf though he was, until she finally relented and let him breathe normally. Then, surprisingly, she smiled and said: 

"Happily for you, I did find my husband's discomfort amusing, otherwise you would now be on my _list_." 

Legolas, though relieved, could not help but shudder with horror at that prospect. 

"But you are still in my debt," she stated firmly, "for playing this trick without my consent. And for using my comb when you were staying at Imladris." 

"How did you know about that?" he asked guiltily. 

"I have my ways. Now, this is what you will do for me. Here I give you four letters that must remain unopened and unstained. You will place them where you can be sure that the recipients will find them before this evening, and you will do so in secret. If you are discovered, you will invent an appropriate explanation for your behaviour and you will not reveal my part in this for any reason." 

Taking the letters and reading the names on them with great curiosity, he said, "That is easy enough to do, in this city of Men, but may I ask what purpose I serve, your Highness?" 

She smiled in a very self-satisfied way and replied, "You may ask, but I need not answer. Good morning, Legolas." 

And then she left, leaving him with alone with four letters and a most interesting task. 

"That actually went fairly well," he mused to himself.

  


* * * * *

  


_My beloved Eowyn, _

Know that I watch thee today with a soul that aches in bliss, and that I would have thee beside me now if I were able! Long have we been parted, and though I begrudge not thy return to Meduseld in honour of thy king, still I burn to hold thee as a man holds a woman, shieldmaiden though she is! 

Yet waiting dost give the moment of reunion greater bliss. In celebration of thy homecoming, or rather thy coming to thy new home, I would meet with thee in private tonight. Come to the East Tower a quarter hour before the moon rises to its zenith and lay yourself on the bed thou shalt find there. Divest thyself of garments and await my coming. 

I look forward to it. 

--F 

Eowyn could feel herself turn slightly red in the face upon reading Faramir's note. Surely she had not been away from Minas Tirith for _that_ long. He sounded a bit desperate. At least this note assured her that her betrothed had been true to her while she had been absent, not that she suspected otherwise. Rather, she had worried that Arwen might have done something treacherous, jealous witch that she was, and that poor Faramir would be caught in her web of deceit. 

But all looked well. Since Eowyn's return this morning, Arwen had barely glanced at her. If the queen had seduced Faramir or done something even more terrible, she would have gloated, surely. 

Eowyn, casting all thoughts of the bitch-queen from her mind, blissfully left her room to find out where the East Tower was located.

  


* * * * *

  


_My dearest Faramir, _

Long have we been parted, and I have been lost in thoughts of sorrow and of the past I leave behind; but still I burn for my lord's touch. Know that I watch you today with a soul that aches in bliss, and that I would have you beside me now if I were able! 

But waiting dost give the moment of reunion greater bliss. In celebration of my coming home, I would meet with you in private. Come to the West Tower as the moon rises to its zenith and look for me on the bed you shall find there. 

I may forget my garments. 

--E 

As Faramir read the note he smiled to himself with pleasure. So, she had missed him, even as she had been away in Rohan on a most solemn task. It was good to know that she was attached to him now, not to Aragorn, which had only brought her grief in the not-so-recent past. It was also good to know that she knew how to write in Common; Faramir had been unsure whether the Rohirrim, a largely illiterate people, would grant literacy to a woman, high-born though she be. 

Now that that worry was laid to rest, he slipped the note into a pocket near to his heart and went about his duties for the rest of the day, occasionally pressing his hand to his breast in anticipation.

  


* * * * *

  


_My dearest Aragorn, _

Know that I forgive you for your indiscretion, and that my treatment of you these days since our wedding has been punishment enough for you. I have neglected my duties as a wife, and I reflect now that your desire for warmth, be it from another, was inevitable. I will give you another chance tonight. Come to the West Tower a quarter hour before the moon rises to its zenith and lay yourself on the bed you will find there. Divest yourself of garments, clasp a rose between your teeth, and await my coming. 

I would have us united again, my love. 

--A 

Aragorn read his wife's note, astonished. Then he read it again. It still contained the same words; he was not dreaming. He had a vague feeling that she might be scheming something dreadful, but then banished the thought, knowing that it would anger her if she sensed his mind. And yet, uneasiness remained. 

Nevertheless, he would go to the tower tonight, for failing to do so would be cowardly and, more importantly, she would definitely kill him if he did not go. He recognized the letter for what it truly was, a sort of ultimatum that would condemn him whatever he chose. 

It was better, at least, to be damned on Arwen's good side.

  


* * * * *

  


_My beloved Gimli, _

Though you have never seen me, I have watched you from amongst the throng as you walk throughout the city. I confess that I have fallen in love with you, my dearest Gimli, the only other Dwarf I have seen in long years. But I love you not only for the race we share, but for the inner fire I see within you, a Dwarf great among his people! I long for your strong hands to embrace me close to your beating heart. I long for your touch so dearly I feel I might die! 

If you wish to see me, come to the East Tower as the moon rises to its zenith and look for me on the bed you shall find there. 

I may forget my garments. 

--The Only Dwarven Maiden within a Thousand Leagues 

Gimli's eyebrows shot up. He immediately suspected some devious plot, concocted perhaps by Legolas, or even the hobbits, but…for Aule's sake, a Dwarven maiden! Here, in this human city, and she obviously wanted him! It was too good a chance to miss. And even now the moon was beginning to rise! He hurried off to ask for directions to the East Tower, thinking that even if it was a trick, how bad could it be?

  


* * * * *

  


Arwen retired to her room early that night, wanting to rest after her labours and, more importantly, to revel in the satisfaction of a plan finely wrought. She was thankful that her father had forced her to take extensive calligraphy lessons in her youth; she had liked them so well, and had been so proficient at them, that she had set about learning how to imitate the handwriting of others in addition to more conventional tasks. The skill had proved to be most useful over the years, never more so than today. 

She usually did not look at her list before retiring to bed, but her activities today had been so interesting that she could not resist reading it as she brushed her long, luxuriant hair (with one hundred stokes). And besides, she had nothing better to do at this hour. She found herself missing her husband's devoted ramblings, and even decided that she would let him back into their bedroom tomorrow--as long as her revenge was satisfied tonight, that is. 

By the light of her oil lamp, she added to the list _Exact recompense from Legolas for spreading rumors about Elves, which were at least somewhat amusing_ (she immediately crossed this off), and _Revenge myself very mildly upon Gimli for finding grandmother more beautiful than myself_. Then, she paused, watching the pale moon through her window as it rose to its magnificent summit in the night sky. 

Four horrified screams from the east and from the west simultaneously rent the silence asunder. 

Arwen, feeling very pleased with herself, crossed off four items with a flourish of her quill. Then she laid herself to sleep, a smile that was almost a smirk adorning her lovely face. 

* * *

Author's Notes: Sorry this chapter took so long to get out! I'm currently writing all those term papers I procrastinated on since, er, the beginning of term. Very bad, me. In fact, I've got one due tomorrow, but hey, I'm used to staying up until 5 am. I can even do it without coffee. 

In case you're confused, here's a summary of who goes where: 

Eowyn: East Tower, naked   
Gimli: East Tower   
Aragorn: West tower, naked   
Faramir: West Tower 

Suffice it to say they all run away screaming. 

So, Arwen's gotten muchos revenge, but will anyone (ie. Eowyn) respond in kind? Well, I'm still deciding on that. I'll probably downplay it; I don't want the revenge war to go on forever, after all. And will Aragorn's slight realizations about his wife's nature help him at all? Judging from this chapter, nope.


	7. The Business of Many Partings

**

Chapter 7: The Business of Many Partings

**

  


"…and so, I propose that we contract the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain to redesign and rebuild the House of Stewards after my late father's, er, unfortunate actions taken there. Gimli the Dwarf has agreed to be our emissary, and has told me that Dain Ironfoot will most probably welcome the chance to work here--" Faramir was trying to say among the angry muttering. 

"Of course they will!" exploded the master of the Builder's Guild. "Bloody Dwarves have wanted an inroad into our economy for decades now! Them with their bloody low wages and state-sponsored labour market! We can't bloody well compete with those bloody communists when they cheat like that! Bloody hell!" 

Faramir made some vague, soothing motions with his hands. "I assure you, Master Builder, that the builders of Minas Tirith shall have ample work to do, indeed more than they can handle by themselves. The Rammas, for example, must be repaired as soon as possible." 

"Oh yes, give us all the hard, manual labour while the bloody Dwarves get all the lucrative, namby-pamby, artsy projects!" 

"Speaking of 'artsy' projects," a representative from the Artisan's Guild cut in smoothly, "I also must object to your giving the gate project to the Dwarves, who are, no doubt, excellent smiths but with a completely different paradigm from our own." 

"Those bloody paradigms…!" 

Aragorn could feel his eyelids beginning to sink down slowly, the sweet spell of slumber beginning to cast its cloak over him. Why on Middle Earth was he even heading this council? Faramir was obviously capable of handling all of these petty matters by himself, and Aragorn's skills could be better used elsewhere. The king began to wistfully dream of those fine days of the war, when he had donned mighty battle armour and wielded Anduril like a glittering star for all to behold. Those were the days! 

Tuning out the droning voices around him, he decided that, after the council, he would give to Faramir as many administrative duties as humanly possible. Arwen had always stressed the importance of delegating, had she not? And though she had assured him he was forgiven for dallying with Eowyn, 'twould be prudent to follow his wife's dictates until their relationship was fully restored… 

"…and in this figure, you will see that our agricultural economy slowed by 16% last quarter, taking wartime rationing into account…and so in this time of great need we must respectfully request a subsidy from his most generous Highness." 

His Highness became suddenly aware of a host of admittedly unfamiliar faces peering expectantly at him. 

"Say what?" said Aragorn smartly. 

"Money. We want money." 

"And you shall have it," declared Faramir, coming to his king's rescue, "for the welfare of the people is always at the forefront of the minds of the royal houses of Minas Tirith, and we hold the Farmer's Guild in the highest regard… 

Aragorn ignored this and fell back into his musings. 

The council disbanded after what seemed an eternity, and the king sighed in relief. After all of the councilors had filed out of the room (glaring shiftily at each other), he approached Faramir a bit nervously. Relations between the two of them had been rather…uncomfortable since that night in the West Tower. 

The steward spoke before Aragorn could open his mouth. 

"I am transferring to Ithilien," said Faramir shortly, "by request of the queen. By tomorrow." And he swept out of the room, leaving his king in a dejected stupor. 

  


* * * * *

  


Arwen held up an envelope enticingly and said, "A free ticket to Aman, and all you must give me in return is your promise to leave with the rest of your friends. By tomorrow." 

Frodo gazed suspiciously at the envelope in her hands. Arwen was not surprised at his hesitation; no doubt stories were already circulating around the castle regarding certain mysterious messages and all that screaming the other night. 

"It's a rather lopsided deal, don't you think?" he said finally. 

"Certainly, but I feel the need to be generous to the ringbearer." 

"No, I mean it's weighted in your favour." 

Arwen only barely controlled her temper. Insolent little beast! Did he not know how difficult it was to procure one of these tickets? 

"This is a rare opportunity, Master Hobbit, I assure you," she forced out. 

"Yes, but so is staying at Minas Tirith with all my friends," the infuriating creature responded placidly. "I think I shall need a greater incentive to leave this most excellent city. You've provided such wonderful hospitality, after all." 

Arwen's eyes flashed in a way that would have made Aragorn quiver like a worm. Frodo, however, stared back at her defiantly. He had had to deal with Gandalf for the longest time, after all, not to mention the occasional undead rider and flaming eyeball of doom. 

"I would have you give me…three more tickets. For my friends," said Frodo. 

"I refuse to allow your cousins access to the Undying Lands," she stated adamantly, thinking about the time she had caught Merry and Pippin using the palantiri as bowling balls. 

"Then just one ticket, for Sam." 

"Fine," she snapped in frustration, realizing that she had met a will to match her own, "but it will take many of your years before I can give it to you. There is much in the way of red tape that will impede me in procuring it." 

The hobbit waved a hand negligently in an almost Elvish gesture. "Perfectly all right. Now, another ticket almost settles the score--" 

"Almost!" 

"Yes, almost," said Frodo calmly. "I want that pretty necklace you're wearing as well." 

The queen would have done something terrible had she not been so startled. "Why do you wish for a necklace?" she asked in puzzlement. 

"None of your business." 

She agreed that it was not. 

"It is a deal." 

After Arwen had procured Frodo's repeated assurances that the Fellowship would leave on the morrow, she stalked back to her room and threw open its doors. And found her opened wardrobe staring back at her, its contents cut into very small pieces. 

She drew near to it and noticed that the pieces were shaped into the likenesses of horses mounted by slim riders. 

"The horse wench," she muttered darkly. Revenge would have to wait, however; it was more important that the snake be banished to Ithilien so that Aragorn could be freed of her poison. While the thought of letting this new offense go unpunished was vexing, Arwen brightened considerably once she realized she now had an excuse to purchase all those new fashions she had been eyeing.

  


* * * * *

  


_The next day…_

"That is a most fetching dress, milady," remarked Faramir appreciatively. 

"Thank you," Eowyn answered modestly, "I just acquired it yesterday, and am quite pleased with it myself. 

"Strange, it looks rather familiar," piped Pippin, but everyone ignored him in favour of watching Gandalf cheat at the pipeweed blowing contest he was having with the hobbits. 

"So let me get this straight," Merry said to the wizard. "Maiar are sort of like minor gods, and five of you were sent here to battle Sauron, who is also a Maia?" 

"Yes. Olorin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten--" 

"If it was five to one why didn't you just kill Sauron until he was dead? You could have saved Mr. Frodo a lot of trouble!" said Sam. 

Gandalf gave the gardener a bushy-eyed glare and replied testily, "I will tell you why, Mr. Gamgee. The blue wizards got lost, Radagast got lazy, Saruman got evil, and all the work was left to me. Which is why I am now going on a vacation." He exhaled loudly, producing twelve concentric smoke rings. 

Legolas and Gimli were somewhat apart from the others, since Legolas could abide neither pipeweed nor blatant cheating, and Gimli was trying to avoid both Eowyn and Faramir in case they happened to remember the embarrassing events of a few nights previous. 

"Do you find it strange that Frodo was so insistent that we journey with him?" Legolas asked. "Though I for one mind not, for both Aragorn and Arwen have been acting in a most disconcerting manner of late. Do you know why Aragorn keeps asking me why I stayed awake on the plains of Rohan while you two slumbered?" 

"I know not, but I am also ready to leave Minas Tirith," answered Gimli, glancing guiltily at the steward and his wife. "Though I shall return in due time, provided I win those contracts for stone and ironwork," he added. 

"And I have spoken with Faramir about a contract for landscaping in Ithilien, but he says he must convince the Business Council first…they seem to think I intend to overrun Ithilien with Elves!" laughed Legolas lightly.* 

"That is as likely as I crowning myself Lord of the Glittering Caves!" chortled Gimli. 

At that moment, the king and queen entered, Arwen resplendent in a new-looking gown that was very much a la mode. She gave Eowyn a hard look but said nothing. 

Aragorn went into full speech mode. "Friends! It saddens my heart to see you leave this city, yet I look forward to our many fine days on the road together--" 

"Excuse me?" Arwen broke in. "You cannot leave, husband, for who would maintain rule over the city with both you and Faramir gone?" 

"Then perhaps Faramir should stay and I should accompany the hobbits home? The Wild is still the Wild, after all," said Aragorn hopefully. 

Arwen laughed, dismissing him. "I think not, husband." Then she turned from him and finished up his farewell speech, giving all the appropriate kudos and avoiding all the grievous blunders he no doubt would have made. All the guests nodded and smiled in approval; no one dared do otherwise. 

There followed a round of farewells, a lot of people wishing Aragorn "good luck, you shall have need of it," a lot of hobbits underfoot asking about the three-day feast they had been promised, and before anyone knew what was happening Arwen was shooing them out the door and onto the road with remarkable efficiency. 

"Goodbye, Strider, Queen Arwen!" the hobbits were yelling. "We shall miss you!" 

"And you shall miss us, Your Highnesses," murmured Eowyn from under her lashes. Faramir gave her an odd look. 

Legolas and Gimli, with sympathetic looks for Aragorn and ignoring the queen's pointed glares, promised to return soon. 

Amid the confused hullabaloo, Gandalf drew close to Aragorn and said, "Look for me in one year's time. I shall be with others you wish to see." The wizard nodded mysteriously and would say no more. 

"Farewell, and journey safely," Aragorn called out finally, mustering his most forlorn look and turning it on Arwen, who still said "No" very firmly. 

As the retreating backs of his friends disappeared over a knoll, Aragorn waved his hand limply. They were gone. 

Arwen took his arm and steered him through the city streets on their way back to the White Tower, saying something about how nice and peaceful it seemed now. Aragorn, lost in his thoughts, gave only the barest responses until she stopped suddenly, her body stiffening in a most alarming fashion. 

The queen was staring at a small boy who sat alone by the road, a not unfamiliar sight in the days following the war. But what was odd about this child was that he was holding a thin, brightly illustrated book. 

Arwen stalked over, plucked the item out of his hand, and read its cover. The child nearly protested until he realized who she was. 

"Do you know what this says?" she asked, her voice soft and dreadful. 

"N-no," stuttered the boy. "I cannot read, ma'am. It was given to me by a beautiful lady, dressed in white and smelling of hay…and all my friends, they got one too…" 

Leaning over his wife's shoulder, Aragorn read the title: _How the Heroic Maiden of Rohan Slew the Hideous Bitch-Queen of Arnor in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields_. Underneath it was a picture of a lovely, flaxen-haired maiden standing triumphantly over a misshapen, yet entirely recognizable feminine figure clothed in black and wearing a truly unfashionable iron crown. A sword protruded out of its midsection. 

"She will pay," Arwen hissed. "She will pay, she will pay, she will pay…" 

Aragorn dropped her arm and ran all the way home. 

* * *

* "…they seem to think I intend to overrun Ithilien with Elves!"   
…and, of course, Legolas eventually does bring a whole flock of Elves who entrench themselves in Ithilien. Likewise, Gimli and his folk manage to worm their way into the Glittering Caves. Says so in the appendix of LotR.

  


Author's Notes: 

_"Red dwarves will give us red beer and red beef" (Did they have Communism in Moria?)_   
-quoted from theonering.net, who got it off the imladris.net discussion board 

That is but a sample of the hilarity of bad translating you can find at http://fan.theonering.net/~henneth-annun/stories/aksman355.htm--go there now! And yes, it's from a _Russian_ translation. Seems I'm not the only one who thinks the dwarves might have had leftist leanings. But I'm afraid I wasn't thinking in so much detail that I analyzed the stonework of Moria, Altariel...though that subject would make an excellent essay topic for someone who knows the art of BS and hasn't actually read Tolkien. Truth be told, I know diddly squat about communism. Up here in Canada, we just talk about Louis Riel until something called "World Events" pies us in the face in university. 

Everyone gets the Witch-Queen of Angmar--I mean, Bitch-Queen of Arnor--joke, right? Should there be a dead, black, winged serpent on Eowyn's book cover? 

I've pretty much dropped the pseudo-Tolkien writing style. Basically, it was too hard to keep up, and the plot doesn't really match it anymore. No one minds, I hope? 

Next chapter might deal with Arwen's pregnancy, but then it might not. I'm pretty much going wherever the story takes me; I've never been much of a planner. But rest assured there will be more chapters, for those who've expressed worry that it's over. I do hope to finish up the story as it's laid out in the appendix, though how I'll do that in a humorous manner I have no idea. 

All the appropriate kudos to reviewers, and hopefully you don't mind all the grievous blunders I have no doubt made! 

p.s. Thank you, Furius and Altariel, for answering my question about Jane and Lizzie Bennet! 


	8. Heir Apparently

**

Chapter 8: Heir Apparently

**

  


"How did you like it?" asked Aragorn while clutching his blanket anxiously. 

Arwen stretched and replied languidly, "Mmm…a worthy performance, though I would not rate it as highly as last night's effort…thought I must make concessions, for one's energy is much depleted in the morning." 

Aragorn gave a faint sigh of relief. Since Eowyn's departure, Arwen's moods had been more fickle than usual, and she had been apt to explode with sudden anger over any trivial error he committed. Moreover, Aragorn was worried that his performance in bed had suffered due to fear of his wife and pressure from his councilors to produce an heir. 

But life had settled into a pattern after a few months. Arwen and Eowyn had been exchanging long distance "presents" that always bordered on international disasters--for example, Arwen retaliated to the publishing of _How the Heroic Maiden of Rohan Slew the Hideous Bitch-Queen of Arnor in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields_ by writing a nigh inappropriate song about Eowyn's close relationship with horses. While the song was fairly popular within Minas Tirith, Aragorn had persuaded his queen that releasing the song in Rohan would not have been beneficial for Gondor's relations with the horse-lords. 

After that first sally, Arwen and Eowyn had fortunately restricted their feud to the private realm. Aragorn could now rest easier knowing that the women had reached a consensus (without actually speaking to one another) regarding the avoidance of international crises. 

And so, life in the White Tower had descended into what could pass for normalcy. Arwen, being a natural in matters of governance, named herself head of the Business Council, an action for which he was eternally grateful. Aragorn was thereby freed to tinker with the army's structure and to deal with the numerous delegates from other countries who were eager to present gifts and bribes to Gondor in return for alliances and protection. The ranks and the coffers swelled with soldiers and money, making Arwen a very happy woman. 

The sex had not been bad either. 

Aragorn, ruminating on how well his life was going, decided to risk what might be a rather sensitive request. 

"My dear," he began delicately, "do you remember what you said about Elves being somewhat…free-minded about whom they love? 

Arwen's response was surprisingly mild. "I seem to remember something of the like. You were rather perturbed about Legolas' watching you while you were bathing." 

"Yes, I mentioned that," said Aragorn, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "But what I had in mind was--" 

"Oh, I forgot to tell you why he did that!" Arwen jumped in. "My father told him to, you see." 

"Your father was involved in this as well?" asked Aragorn in alarm. 

"Yes, he asked Legolas to watch over you and keep you from harm…he did not want you to die and leave me bereft, Estel." 

"Oh. That sets my mind at rest," said Aragorn, relieved. 

"Though Legolas seemed overly eager to guard you, in my mind." 

There was a pregnant pause, until Aragorn said, "That does not set my mind at rest." He struggled with that uncomfortable thought for a while, and then said tentatively, "So, anyway, I wanted to ask you about, er, sharing our bed with another woman. You said you would not be averse to it?" (He reminded himself that mentioning Eowyn's name at this point had gotten him thrown out of the bedroom the last time.) 

"Oh, so you have been deliberating whether to ask this of me?" laughed Arwen. "I had forgotten that I had said such things to you…it was a jest, you see." 

"A jest?" repeated Aragorn incredulously. 

"Yes, Elves are _not_ attracted to their own sex. Or most of them, anyway. I told you otherwise so that you would avoid Legolas and ostracize him a little…I had to punish him for spreading rumors about our people." 

"And your method of retaliation was to spread more rumors about your people," mused Aragorn. 

Arwen gave him a sidelong glance at his faint tone of disapproval, and replied, "You would take issue with my actions, dear husband?" 

"Such thoughts never once came to my mind." 

He had a moment's view of Arwen's wicked smile before a pillow came flying into his face. 

"Bad husband!" she cried playfully, thrashing him again and again with her goose-down pillow. "You vowed to never contradict me, did you not? Bad, bad husband!" 

Just as Aragorn was beginning to enjoy the beating, his wife suddenly stopped flailing about so that she could clutch her stomach with one hand and place her other hand over her mouth. 

"Arwen?" he inquired. "What is the matter?" 

For once in her long life, Arwen held her mouth shut. Then she silently stumbled out of the bed and ran to the lavatory. Aragorn, from his position on the bed, could hear her wretchedly purging the contents of her stomach. 

"What is this new sorrow that plagues us?" he said to himself anxiously. "Have I made my love ill…?"

  


* * * * *

  


"You have made her pregnant," said Ioreth of the Houses of Healing. "Congratulations, King Elessar!" 

Aragorn fainted.   


* * * * *

  


Once Aragorn had been revived, he sort of wished he hadn't been. 

"Why am I taken so ill!" she shrieked as soon as he entered their bedroom. "Elves do not sicken save through grief! And I do not grieve! Grieving is for the weak! Estel, you fool, what have you done to me?" 

Aragorn _almost_ turned back. 

"Ah…Arwen, dearest, Ioreth must have told you that you are with child, yes? And you must know that such symptoms such as those you have are to be expected…" 

"Not among the Eldar," she uttered in a dangerous voice. "I have heard nothing of such crass ailments before childbirth." 

He wiped his sweating hands on his trousers and said meekly, "It is so among Men, and you now count yourself among our race." 

"You told me nothing of this sickness of yours," she said accusingly. Aragorn could practically see the murderous thoughts gathering thickly inside her head. "You deceived me! You…you must procure for me some lembas! Immediately!" 

Aragorn blinked several times before replying, "Your pardon?" 

"Lembas! The good kind, from Lothlorien, wrapped in mallorn leaves. It is the only way you may regain my favour. I must have it now!" 

"Of course," said Aragorn quickly, taking any chance to escape, and hoping to assuage the crazed, hungry glint in his wife's eyes. "I will send for it right away, so if you will now excuse me…" 

"And I must have it with fish from the Isen…!" she called to his retreating back. 

He fled the room before she could say aught else; he was not called Strider for nothing, after all. Now all he had to do was think of a way to ship a cart full of fresh lembas all the way from Lothlorien before Arwen killed him.   


* * * * *

  


The next nine months passed with agonizing slowness. Between Arwen's furious yet cranky tempers, her increasingly bizarre demands for various exotic foods, and having to run the kingdom with little help from steward or wife, Aragorn had little rest. He often found himself wishing that Arwen were the sort of woman who became warm and glowing when she was with child, rather than cruelly demanding. Aragorn's only consolation during this trying period was that the council had stopped bothering him about producing an heir. 

Then the day of doom arrived, as it always must. 

"It all goes amiss," Aragorn muttered to himself, pacing outside the special maternity room Arwen had been living in for the past fortnight. 

Ioreth popped her head out of the queen's room. "They all say that, Your Highness," she admonished cheerfully, "but you should be rejoicing! You are to have an heir soon." 

"Is it already time?" asked Aragorn in alarm. 

"No, no, of course not--" 

A pained scream that most definitely belonged to Arwen issued from behind the doorway. 

"Or perhaps it is," corrected Ioreth before shutting the door in his face. 

Despite the flutters of nervous anticipation in his stomach and the fact that he, being a man, was not allowed to participate in the birthing process, Aragorn pressed his ear against the thick wooden door. He strained to understand his wife's cries. 

"…wish he was never born! Or that he had been tortured and killed and burned to death and killed by orcs! Estel, you coward! I know you are there…!" 

Well. That was enough of that. 

Aragorn slunk away and sat in his study to wait for the end, taking out an empty pipe and sucking on it for comfort (Arwen still would not let him smoke). He might have slept, but he could not be sure; the next thing he knew a pageboy burst into his study, completely ignoring protocol, to announce that the queen had given birth. The king, likewise ignoring normal codes of behaviour, scurried in a most undignified fashion toward the maternity room. 

At the door, the formidable obstacle of Ioreth barred his way. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but it is not meet for a man enter here," she said firmly. 

Aragorn surprised himself by stating proudly, "May not a king go whither he chooses? And may he not choose to be beside his wife when she has undergone a great ordeal?" 

At this rare near-command Ioreth moved aside, though he thought he heard her muttering, "Well, where were you when she was screaming murder upon your grave?" Ignoring this, the king strode to his wife, who lay in exhaustion upon her bed, and beheld his child for the first time--a tiny, wrinkled body resting peacefully against Arwen, with eyes closed and soft hands curled tightly. 

"He is so beautiful," murmured Aragorn, gazing with wonder upon the miracle that was his child. 

"She," said Arwen tiredly. 

Horrified realization dawned. "She?" 

"She." 

"Not an heir? You mean we must do this again?" 

"Yes." 

Aragorn fainted. 

"Ioreth, the herbs again." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

* * *

Author's Notes: I'm done exams! Yay! I'm working full-time, five or six days a week! Boo! Yeargh. Expect updates to be slower than ever. 

Anyone who thinks Legolas is gayer than a fruit cocktail raise your hand (ie. Mercuria). Anyone who thinks he's not, also raise your hands. I wrote the first conversation of this chapter so that all of you can think whatever you want about him. Personally, I think he's asexual. 

Next chapter will feature…er, more guest stars. I never seem to run out of those. 


	9. The InLaws Strike Back

**

Chapter 9: The In-laws Strike Back

**

  


"Coochie coochie coo!" 

"Oh, do stop that," said Arwen. "I think I shall take ill again if you continue." 

"But how can I resist my sweet little Miriel?* What a good girl you are! Who is _such_ a good little girl?" asked King Elessar Telcontar of the reunited kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. Miriel, being blissfully unconscious, did not answer him. 

Arwen put on an expression of weary suffering, though Aragorn could tell his wife was secretly amused. 

"Anyway, a letter from the hobbits has arrived for you, Estel," spoke Arwen while perusing said letter. "It seems that they are doing well...Merry and Pippin have become quite the young-men-about-town since their return from their 'excursions'...Sam had a child, or rather, Rosie did, and Sam has acquired political aspirations, imagine that. Hobbits are such quaint creatures. And Frodo..." 

"What about Frodo?" said Aragorn distractedly while tickling his daughter's tiny feet. 

Arwen's neck displayed a slight twitch. "Oh, he is doing as well as can be expected," she said indifferently. 

"What do you mean?" asked Aragorn, looking up from the cradle at her odd tone. "May I read my letter?" 

"Not at this time, I think - goodness, look at that!" 

"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Aragorn, his eyes following her finger as it pointed randomly out the window. "Why, there is a party approaching the castle!" 

"Really?" said Arwen, blinking. "I mean, of course!" She gazed out the window and gasped sharply. 

"Aragorn! Do you see?" she hissed, sounding oddly distraught. 

He strained his eyes, wishing that he had Elven sight, feeling disadvantaged as he often had while growing up in Rivendell. But his vision was better than that of most humans, and certainly very good for his age, and he perceived a group of eleven riders hooded and cloaked in grey. Except for one--a slim, shining figure in white with long golden hair, riding tall and proud upon her horse. 

"Oh my Valar," he breathed, "It is Eowyn." 

Arwen slapped him on the back of his head. 

"No, it is not She-Who-Must-Not-be-Named. That is my grandmother, as well as my father and brothers. Oh, and Celeborn." 

"Oh," sighed Aragorn in relief. Then: "Oh!" 

"What can they be doing here again after only a year? We had an agreement that they would not visit often!" muttered Arwen to herself. She picked up Miriel with efficient, no-nonsense movements and handed her to a silently waiting maid. 

"Take Miriel to the music hall, Lenneth. It is time for her music appreciation class." 

As the maid shuffled away, Aragorn stared after his daughter as if he would never see her again. 

"Compose yourself, Elessar. We must ready the city for the arrival of our lords, though they arrive uninvited and unannounced and completely unwelcome." 

"What horrible timing they have," grumbled Aragorn. 

"Or rather, what exquisitely calculated timing they have," commented Arwen with narrowed eyes. Her hand moved to the letter she had tucked away in her sleeve.   


* * * * *

  


"Sister dearest, you look absolutely delightful!" 

"Radiant! Glowing! As if you just gave birth--" 

"I did," said Arwen tersely to her brothers. 

"Imagine that!" 

"How stunning!" 

"What a remarkable coincidence," Elrond remarked blandly. 

Sometimes, when Arwen felt a vague sense of homesickness for Imladris, she needed only to remember what her former home was actually like to rid herself of such weak-hearted vacillations. 

"Granddaughter, how _lovely_ you, look, I can hardly notice that you were recently bloated with child or that you are an aging mortal." Galadriel, Arwen noted, was wearing about fifty pieces of glittering jewelry, most of which had once belonged to Gondor's treasury. No wonder Aragorn had singled her out from such a great distance. 

"Miruvor, anyone?" offered Arwen between gritted teeth.** 

"Yes, that would be wonderful. You seem somewhat unwell, sister," remarked Elladan. 

Though dangerously irritable, she silently agreed that his observation was true. While Arwen's body was simply too perfect to have become swollen at its extremities or flabby in the stomach…still, something was distinctly, humanly _off_ about her. "If I seem unwell, imagine how distinctly wretched you would feel after giving birth, brother dear," she said, then left to get the miruvor feeling a distinct urge to strangle someone. 

"No, I think she is always like that," Elrohir observed once she was out of earshot. 

Arwen came back with a troupe of servants who set out a very nice 4 o'clock miruvor with an assortment of biscuits and all of the lembas leftover from her pregnancy. She was desperately sick of the stuff now and wanted to get rid of it. Her relatives, after making some polite comments about how sumptuous everything looked, sat themselves and began talking about their impending trip to Valinor. 

"You shall adore Tirion," gushed Galadriel to Elrond. "My mother Earwen holds stunning balls every night and contracts the most shockingly expensive caterers and decorators so that everyone has something to gossip about. She is _such_ a thoughtful woman. And the guest lists! Elves from what would be called legend and history here, but actually close personal friends of mine over there. I am afraid Middle Earth simply cannot compete." 

"That is nice," said Elrond, non-committal. 

"...and it shall be so amusing when Gimli comes in a few short years as well! 

"The dwarf!" exclaimed Elladan and Elrohir in equal and simultaneous horrification. 

"Those who dwell in the Undying Lands will not allow it. They must not," said Arwen queasily. 

"Nonsense," said Galadriel, "I will merely put in a few words for dear Gimli once I reach Aman. I do not mean to boast, but I am high in favour with the Valar. 

"Of course she is," said Celeborn sullenly to himself. Everyone ignored him. Meanwhile, Aragorn had a distinct sense of déjà vu. 

"But surely there will be mounds of red tape to work through in order to gain entrance for the dwarf!" protested Elrond. "You do not want to spend your time in Valinor muddling through bureaucracy, Galadriel." 

Before she could reply, Celeborn muttered under his breath, "But that is what she likes to do best." 

"What did you say, husband?" said Galadriel sharply. 

"Nothing you would care to hear," said Celeborn, louder. 

Galadriel turned her gaze away from him and continued to prattle. "I will write a letter of introduction-could you give it to Gimli when I am gone, Estel? - that he may bring with him once he sails, so even Thingol's folk will not be permitted to carry out their grudge - the Elves of Doriath can be _so_ mulish at times." 

Celeborn stood abrubtly and pounded a fist on the table with unexpected force. He had to cradle his injured hand afterward, but it was still an arresting gesture. Galadriel and Elrond, who had known him for millennia and had never seen him act so violently, gazed at the Lord of Lothlorien with unabashed surprise. 

"Perhaps you have forgotten, dear wife, from whence I came?" he said acidly. 

Galadriel, recovering from her shock, gazed at him steadily. "I have not forgotten," she spoke, her voice as lofty and cold as the stars. "My memory is old and deep; deeper even than yours, husband." 

"Oh, do stop bragging, it is _so_ tacky and there are no ignorant dwarves here to be fooled by it," sneered Celeborn. 

"You should not speak of tackiness, Sir I-like-to-dye-my-hair-silver-to-match-my-wardrobe." 

Elladan coughed pointedly at this point. Elrohir, knowing his brother's mind (literally), grabbed Aragorn's arm so the three of them could quietly escape together. Arwen glared at them enviously but decided to let them go; it would be much easier to placate her grandparents without the terrible trio around. 

"More miruvor, anyone?" she said sweetly, purposely interrupting a particularly nasty exchange regarding personal hygiene. 

Everyone ignored her, but at least she did not have a distinct sense of déjà vu.   


* * * * *

  


"Nice garden," complimented Elrohir. 

"Yes, very. And now that we have quit that horrible scene," announced Elladan with relish, "we can finally speak of a matter over which we have pondered long and hard." 

"What say you, Estel? Is it better to be Man or Elf?" asked Elrohir with affected casualness. 

"I would not know," answered Aragorn carefully, "since I have never been an Elf. Mayhap Arwen is the better one to ask." 

"No, she is not," said Elladan, waving a hand negligently, "for she has already chosen, yes? And this is not a question for the womanly half of the pair." 

"And why is that?" 

"We ask _you_ because you are one among many Men who have wedded the most beauteous Elf-maidens throughout the ages. It began with Beren and Luthien...then Tuor and Idril...even Conan the Hideous of Harad and Lady Terebithia of Rivendell most lately. And you might also count among the blessed Turin Turambar, much loved by Finduilas daughter of Orodreth, though she died alone in horrible agony and he ended up accidentally marrying his sister." 

"And now myself and Arwen," mused Aragorn. "You have researched well. All the most lovely Elf-maidens..." 

"But not Galadriel," interjected Elrohir, "for she married an Elf. And an Elf very unlike Men, if I may say so." 

Elladan raised a graceful eyebrow at his twin. "I do not consider our _grandmother_ among the eligible. 

"But you would count our sister?" 

"Ooh, touché. We would not want to go into Turin and Nienor territory in our considerations." 

"But why do you make these considerations now?" asked Aragorn, puzzled. "You have, literally, all the time in the world to choose. 

"Dear Aragorn, you must know that women avoid committing themselves to us because we have not chosen? The Elven women dread that we shall choose the world of Men, and the human women dread that we shall choose the world of Elves." 

"Are you sure they simply do not simply dread your attention?" said Aragorn dryly. 

The twins put on identically affronted looks. "You cannot doubt that we the most eligible bachelors in all of Middle Earth!" exclaimed Elladan. "I mean, just look at us." 

"What a fine looking fellow you are, brother!" said Elrohir appreciatively. 

"And you!" concurred Elladan. 

"Yes, we have all the right traits, do we not? Looks, lineage, a massive trust fund waiting for us once father leaves..." 

"And quite the perfect age for marrying! How old are we, Elrohir?" 

"I have no idea." 

"Exactly!" 

"But, my dear brothers," said Arwen's voice from the archway unexpectedly, "I had heard that Legolas is now considered the most eligible male Elf in Middle Earth." She entered the garden and seated herself placidly beside Aragorn. 

"Who?" said Elladan mock-casually. "You mean Legolas-come-lately?" 

"He is only, what, barely three thousand years old? That upstart! No offense meant, sister," added Elrohir, belatedly remembering her age. 

"Much taken," retorted Arwen caustically. 

Elrohir, shifting uncomfortably under her glare, gracefully and with Elven subtlety attempted to change the subject. 

"So what did you discuss with father and grandmother and grandfather?" 

Arwen's perpetual glare intensified. "'Discuss' is not the word for it, dear brothers who fled in the face of adversity." 

"Ah, I see. Er...Estel! Seen any good pheasants lately?" 

"Oh yes," said Aragorn enthusiastically, eager to talk about a subject in which he was well-versed. "Why, just yesterday I saw a nesting pair with at least six eggs--" 

"Not on your supper table, I pray?" 

And lo, they all laughed uproariously at that, and Elrohir was spared his life and his dignity, though not by much. 

"So really, how did grandmother and grandfather's little spat turn out?" asked Elladan once he sensed that Arwen's temper was suitably pacified by laughter. 

Arwen's smile turned smug. "Thanks to a few adroit words on my part, grandfather is now weeping and pouring out his feelings of inferiority and fear of the loneliness that shall plague him once grandmother sails to the utter West and grandmother has suddenly become very soothing and supportive and I do think I deserve a medal." 

"Er, we are very proud of you, sister." 

"Right." 

Aragorn put on a vaguely anxious expression. He had to at least pretend he cared a whit about his in-laws, after all. "Should we see if Celeborn is all right?" he asked aloud. Everyone ignored him, which gave him a distinct sense of déjà vu. 

"Aside from the torrent of tears and tyranny, did anything interesting happen?" 

"Not really," spoke Arwen almost abruptly. And she said nothing more. 

Elladan looked at her suspiciously. 

"So this is where you say, 'nothing happened except for the bit where Queen Beruthiel leapt out from under the tablecloth and demanded that we tell her where Tom Bombadil is hiding, that rascal, so she can launch a paternity suit against him,' am I right?" 

"No." 

"Are you sure," chimed in Elrohir, "that a dying Nazgul clothed entirely in black and breathing in an oppressively heavy manner did not crawl into the room while hissing, 'Elrond, I am your father'?" 

"No." 

"Did you all discuss that letter from Frodo?" 

Arwen looked at Aragorn in astonishment, and before she could control herself she blurted out, "How did you know?" 

Aragorn, not used to being in a position of non-subjugation to his wife, could only mutter something about being a good guesser. He had a distinct feeling that he should be getting some déjà vu right about now. 

Elladan and Elrohir collectively decided that they could help their stepbrother grow a spine later. They leaned forward as one and inquired, "What did this letter say?" 

"Frodo intends to sail from these shores," answered Arwen gravely, as if she had not learned this months ago when the hobbit had wrestled his ticket to Valinor from her. "He goes with father and grandmother and grandfather; and Mithrandir as well." 

"Frodo is leaving? And Gandalf is leaving as well?" said Aragorn in surprise. "Then why is he not here with the others now?" 

"Pipeweed convention with Radagast," supplied Arwen. 

"Ah." 

"This is surely a bittersweet age," said Elrohir, "that sees the passing of the ringbearer and the wizards and the Elves..." 

"...And yet, it will be so much more fun around here without those doddering old folks meddling in our business, yes?" finished Elladan. 

"Oh yes, we shall have to throw a party as soon as we get back to Rivendell. How long do you think it should last this time? A month or three?" 

"My small-minded brother, I was thinking it should take at least a year!" 

Arwen stood gracefully. "Elladan, if you call Elrohir small-minded, you insult yourself as well, for you each account for one half of the same mind. Come, Estel, these two shall not be good company for the next week. Not that they are under any circumstances. 

"I must agree," said Aragorn, rising and taking her hand as the twins' discussion turned to the matter of how easy it would be to acquire the severely alcoholic stuff without their stodgy father around.   


* * * * *

  


The king and queen walked quietly by themselves through the stone courtyards of their home, leaning upon each other as they watched the sun in its inevitable descent. 

"You are sombre, my lord," said Arwen after a while. "Does my news of Frodo's departure distress you?" 

"Perhaps, and Gandalf's as well. But I think that 'distress' is not the name for the feeling in my heart." 

"What would you name it then?" 

"Ahh...I do not know. Perhaps I feel old." 

Arwen scrutinized his face carefully. 

"You have no more wrinkles than yesterday." 

He laughed lightly at that, and said, "Twilight makes me feel old."   


* * * * *

  


Later on, Aragorn and Arwen popped their heads into the tearoom where the dreaded in-laws had passed out from the drugged miruvor Arwen had given them. Elrond was drooling all over the table. Galadriel and Celeborn, she noticed with great satisfaction, were sprawled on the settee and holding hands, snoring lightly. 

"All is well," Arwen reported softly so as not to wake them. 

"That would be my line," said a creaky voice behind them. 

Arwen spun around and punched Gandalf in the nose. 

"Ow." 

"Oh dear, I am sorry." 

"That did not sound very sincere." 

"You startled me." 

"That would be my job." 

"Gandalf!" 

"Hello, Aragorn. Hoo...have you redecorated this room? Very nice, swirly colour scheme, I must say." 

Aragorn looked at his wife in puzzlement, who sniffed the air and murmured, "Pipeweed." 

Gandalf, usually so perceptive, did not seem to notice this. "I came to give you some advice, young ones. And that advice is this: evil is very evil. There, I am done." He took a deep breath. "I have imparted my wisdom upon the next generation. I can go home and take a nice, long nap now. Good night." 

Then the great Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, He Who Has Almost But Not Quite As Many Names as Aragorn, toppled onto his nose like a pile of old wizard and fell asleep. 

"How the mighty have fallen," remarked Arwen. 

"Have you noticed that too?" said Aragorn. "All of them, in this room. If an assassin came in right now he could make a sizeable profit." 

"I shall miss them," said Arwen suddenly. 

Somewhere, a feminine scream issued forth. Then came the sounds of a terrible beating and what sounded like Elladan yelling like a little girl. 

"Well, somewhat." 

"At least your dear brothers are staying." 

"Such a comfort." 

"You have me for comfort." 

Arwen raised her hand to his lined face. 

"There is that," she sighed.   


* * * * *

  


The next morning, a group of groggy elves and one old wizard awoke outside the gates of the White Tower, on which a sign saying "And Stay Out!" blared belligerently. 

They shook their fists at the tower, fell over at the effort, picked themselves up, and finally left. 

The king and queen of Gondor watched from their high window with their daughter beside them. 

"Say goodbye to the old fuddy duddies, Miriel," cooed Aragorn. 

"Goodbye," said Arwen. 

* * *

* Míriel was the name of Feanor's mum who died giving birth to him, proving that that brat was a troublemaker from the start. There was also a Míriel in Numenor, she who was the true heir but whose throne was usurped by the last king of Numenor, Ar-Pharazon. Hm. The history of the name has no relation to this fic, so far. I just picked it because a) it sounds nice; b) it's Numenorean _and_ Elvish; and c) I'm too lazy to come up with my own name. 

** Miruvor is that Elvish drink that Gandalf administered to the Fellowship on Caradhras to warm them up. I think. Someone borrowed my copy of FOtR so I can't check this. 

  


Author's Notes: An unusually serious episode, and unusually long too. And Aragorn and Arwen's newborn kid played an unusually minor part. Stay tuned, folks. 

Which leads me to my next point. How would you like to name one of Aragorn and Arwen's kids? Just chuck a vaguely Elvish or Numenorean sounding name at me in a review or in an email (miluda@hotmail.com). There's no guarantee I'll use it, but if you give me a female name, or better yet, multiple female names, your odds go up astronomically. 

There a reference to Valkyrie Profile (a Playstation RPG) and a reference to a Newberry Winner book in this chapter. If you spot one, you get a whole virtual cookie! For free! But spotting the Harry Potter reference gets you zilch--that one's too easy ^_^. 

_So, when's Eldarion going to be born?_

Whenever I feel like it! Tokien didn't specify a date, as far as I know, and I'm not sticking to the timeline anyway, and Aragorn and Arwen live until they're about a gazillion years old, so I've got all the time in the world to get the little moppet born. 


	10. All's Fair in Love and War

**

Chapter 10: All's Fair in Love and War

**

  


"Arwen, it seems that there there is some sort of civil war going on in Harad." 

"Hmm, that is nice. Miriel, stop pulling your sister's hair!" 

"But, but, she made a funny face at me, mother!" 

"Dearest, she is an infant, her face is supposed to look like that." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes, you once looked like that, child." 

"Arwen, it seems that there is some sort of civil war going on in Harad." 

"Hmm, really. Have you noticed that Anariel emits an unseemly amount of saliva? I do not recall that Miriel dribbled this much, although she did wet the bed until she was five..." 

"Mother!" 

"Arwen, it seems that there is some sort of civil war going on in Harad." 

The queen of Gondor turned from the bassinet that held her newborn daughter, gave Aragorn an appraising look, then turned and resumed her motherly fussing as if she had heard nothing. 

"Miriel, do you not think your sister is the most lovely and wonderful child in the world?" 

"No, I think she is ugly and odi..odifer...smelly." 

"Miriel, do you not think your sister deserves to have affection heaped upon her by her mother and father every moment of her life, and if her father abandons her so that he can fight in some silly foreign war then he is a horrible parent?" 

"No, I think pappy should heap affection on _me_," said Miriel, who ran to her father and hugged his knees. "Can we play Orcs and Rangers today, pappy? I want to try out the new things I got from Bergil." She pulled a small quiver of arrows off her back and presented it proudly to her father. 

"Not today, Miriel, I have to...are those real arrows?" exclaimed Aragorn. 

"Real arrows!" said Arwen sharply. Before Miriel knew what was happening her mother had used Elven speed to confiscate the quiver, pull out an arrow, inspect it, and bestow upon Miriel a look of utter fury. 

"Miriel! What DO you think you are playing at, young lady!" 

"Orcs and Rangers, of course," Miriel answered proudly. 

"With REAL arrows! Firstly, that game is not fit for a princess--" 

"Like I have never heard that one before..." 

"MIRIEL! How DARE you speak to me in that tone! Why, when I was your age I respected my elders! I was--" 

"Ten times worse, actually," Aragorn interrupted. "Miriel, would you mind delaying this conversation until later? I need to speak with your mother alone." 

"But I do not want you to get yelled at, pappy." 

"She will not yell at me." 

"Yes, she will. She will be all like, 'Estel, you worthless husband! How DARE you speak to me in that tone!'" 

Aragorn looked at his wife, whose face had turned slightly pink. Miriel's imitation was really quite uncanny. Perhaps he should not have given her those bird-call lessons after all. 

"I really think you should go now, daughter," said Aragorn delicately. 

Miriel must have sensed her mother's impending explosion of wrath as well since she immediately fled the room, mumbling something about going to her room to do her homework like a good little girl. 

"She is in so much trouble," said Arwen loudly. "And you, Estel, are in even more trouble. How DARE you undermine my authority like that! Miriel hardly listens to me, now that you have spoiled her so much that she--" 

"Arwen," he interrupted her a second time that day, "it seems that there is some sort of civil war going on in Harad." 

"I know, I am not deaf." 

"I...would like to leave for Harad immediately." 

"I think not. Am I to raise Anariel on my own?" 

"Faramir advises that I join him at the muster of Ithilien." 

"You are the king, not Faramir, and you do not have to follow his every suggestion. Besides, I suspect that this is one of the Horse Wench's plots." 

"...How so?" 

"She is luring you to Ithilien in order to seduce you--" 

"Arwen," he interrupted again, "this is real. If I do not go to Harad, the factions that supported Sauron shall gain control once more. And when we consider Harad's powerful influence over its neighbours...we must end this before it erupts into something larger." 

"I know the political situation," sighed Arwen. "And what sort of name is 'Pro-Sauronites' anyway?" 

"A stupid one. So I can go?" 

"Why are you asking me permission?" She threw up her hands, exasperated. "You are the king, are you not?" 

"Well, yes, but you remember the time I ordered a new table for the council and you told me to never make any sort of decision again without consulting you?" 

"That was different. You have no sense of interior design." 

"True. What would I do without you, beloved?" 

"Probably order terrifcally bad tables. But you will not have to order any tables in Harad, I take it?" 

"Most likely, no." 

"Then you will be fine without me." 

"I will. And you will most certainly be fine without me." 

Arwen smiled faintly at the thought that she might be emotionally or politically dependent on her husband. 

"This will give me a chance to instill some discipline in our eldest daughter without you around to countermand my every order." 

Aragorn gazed at her nervously, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. He hoped his wife and daughter would not kill each other in his absence. 

"It will be hard to explain your departure to Miriel," mused Arwen. "She shall miss you dearly." 

"Oh, I believe she will understand," Aragorn answered. 

  


* * * * *

  


"YOU ARE GOING TO WAR?!" 

"I am sorry, dear, pappy has to quell the nasty barbarian civil war." 

"WITHOUT ME?!" 

"Yes, dear." 

"BUT I WANT TO GO FIGHT THE NASTY BARBARIANS TOOOOO!" 

"I am sorry, dear." 

"WAAAHHH!!! 

"Miriel, please let go of my leg..." 

  


* * * * *

  


"So, how did Arwen and Miriel take the news of your leavetaking?" inquired Faramir. 

"Quite excellently, once Miriel stopped trying to relieve poor Bergil of his clothing in order to disguise herself and secretly ride with our company. Considering that she is little over a metre tall it was rather easy to spot her amongst my riders. I think all of your wife's tales of 'Dernhelm' may have influenced her behaviour," Aragorn replied. 

"No more than your wife's tale of saving Frodo from the Nazgul at Imladris." 

Aragorn's passage to Ithilien was uneventful, even pleasant. He had missed being on the road, treading through the wilds of Middle Earth, sharing his meals with loyal companions, killing the random hapless orc here and there. He was actually looking forward to this war, come to think of it, though he would miss his family. He surveyed the scurrying soldiers in their bright mail, the shrill whinnying of horses, and the restless clinking of weaponry around him and felt a manly sort of satisfaction creep into him. 

Faramir was also looking about appraisingly, and he said with a note of dissatisfaction, "There are too few here, too few. If only my men in South Ithilien would answer my summons...we shall have to try to gather them when we pass through there." 

"Why do they go to South Ithilien?" asked Aragorn in surprise. 

"Legolas has set up a casino." 

"Ah. I always knew he was a card shark." 

"And now my men cower in those dank halls of sin and villainry, refusing to obey my orders! Can you imagine that?" 

"No, not really. I was under the impression that Elven abodes are airy and well-lit." 

"These ones are underground. And I mean that literally and figuratively." 

"I've been meaning to ask you," said Aragorn suddenly, "why did you give South Ithilien to Legolas anyway? Not that I dispute your decision, as Ithilien is yours to do with as you will. But I thought it strange." 

Faramir looked at a point somewhere over the king's shoulder, his face slightly red. 

"You have not heard, then," he said tightly, "of how those damnable Elves just showed up one day with their lawyers and documents written in fancy Elvish script and incomprehensible legal terms? Before I knew what was happening I had a whole nation of new next-door neighbors!" 

"How could they do this?" asked Aragorn, shocked. 

"According to ancient Elven law, a population need only inhabit a land for a year and create one thousand poems or songs about said land in order to claim it as their demesne. I believe the Noldor passed this law in the First Age, back when they had no lands in Middle Earth and needed to claim some of their own. So Legolas and his kin secretly stole into Southern Ithilien, and by poetry and song have taken it as their own." 

"But at least the Elves of Ithilien have produced valuable cultural artifacts..." began Aragorn weakly, until Faramir cut him off. 

"Ha! Valuable cultural artifacts indeed! Would you care to hear one of their songs?" 

Having experienced Faramir's terrible taste in poetry in the past, Aragorn shook his head vigorously; but alas it was too late, and the Steward began to sing: 

Here are trees,   
I like them.   
Ithilien has trees,   
so I like Ithilien! 

Aragorn managed not to wince. He appeared to muse for a moment and then murmured, "That does not even rhyme..." 

"Those pointy little Elves, skulking about for a year and composing their so-called poetry! We did not even know they were here until the lawyers came tapping, tapping on my chambre door! Only this and nothing more!" Faramir seethed, not even pretending to listen to the king anymore. Aragorn looked about him, trying to find a way to escape. 

"Aragorn! Faramir!" called a familiar voice. 

"Ah, Eomer!" hailed Aragorn thankfully, turning to meet the king of Rohan who was, as usual, perched atop a very tall horse. Not that Aragorn was annoyed or anything, but he was generally used to being the tallest man in any company. "It has been too long, my friend, since we have ridden together! How fares the Mark?" 

"As well as always, although our economy has taken a downturn...there is only so much you can do with horses, I'm afraid. Er, how are you, Faramir? You look somewhat...ruffled. You are treating my sister well, I trust?" 

"Of course," replied Faramir, no longer showing his fury but still sounding miffed, "although it is rather difficult when she has dressed herself as a knight and tried to join the riders in our company _fifteen times and counting_. Fortunately, she is very easy to spot amongst the menfolk." 

"I imagine so...how many months has she been with child?" inquired Eomer. 

"Eight." 

"Eight months?" said Aragorn in astonishment. "And yet she wishes to wield a blade and ride into battle?" 

In reply, Eomer muttered a few words in Rohirric. Aragorn, who knew the language well, thought he heard something like "...children being born in the saddle where I come from." 

Faramir cleared his throat and said, "I had better go to Eowyn now...just to make sure she is not getting into trouble again." He bowed rather abruptly to the two kings, and strode quickly toward an assembly of cavalry. Aragorn was glad to be rid of his company - the steward's current mood would eventually lead to the recitation of more bad poetry. 

Aragorn then turned his full attention to the king of Rohan, smiling wryly and saying, "Your sister is a valiant woman." 

"Yes, and if you touch her I will skewer you in many painful ways and places." 

"Right." 

"I was rather relieved, actually," said Eomer, "that she finally moved out. For when women enter their thirties they start to become unmarriable. And the women of my country have gotten strange ideas into their pretty little heads ever since that book about my sister's exploits was published. What was it called? _How the Heroic Maiden of Rohan Slew the Hideous Bitch-Queen of Arnor in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields_, I believe? Not that most Rohirric women can read it, but word gets around. They are calling her Joan of Mark now, you know." 

"Joan? Why Joan?" asked Aragorn, confused. 

Eomer leaned down from his horse slightly and tried to whisper at Aragorn, although he was still so high up that he had to perform the equivalent of a stage-whisper. 

"Joan means 'butch' in Rohirric," shout-whispered Eomer in a secretive manner. 

Aragorn suddenly felt enlighted. 

After that revelation the two kings walked in companionable silence for a while...until Aragorn suddenly remembered something interesting Eomer had said. 

"Eowyn is over thirty years of age?" 

"Oops. Please don't tell her I told you that." 

"But of course! Besides, it is not so bad for a woman to be over thirty...my wife is at least three thousand years old." 

"Three thousand!" 

"Oops. Please don't tell her I told you that." 

"But of course!" 

"That is a relief," said Aragorn. "Indeed, I am comforted by your company, Eomer of Rohan! It is good to be among warriors once again after these years of married life. Speaking of which, when are you going to find a wife for yourself?" 

Eomer's horse stumbled a little at this unexpected turn in the conversation. "Why do you ask that?" he demanded. 

"Oh, no reason. It's just that if Eowyn is in her thirties then you must be getting on in years as well, and you have no heir..." 

The king of Rohan sighed a little, then said, "Actually, I am looking outside of Rohan for a wife...it seems I have 'exhausted' all of the choices of women at Edoras. If you know what I mean." He winked suggestively. 

"Right, all the women at Edoras," said Aragorn. "Come off that high horse, Your Highness." 

"Why? I rather like the view up here." 

Aragorn groaned. It was going to be a long trip. 

"Nevermind, Eomer. So you are considering marrying a woman who is not of Rohan?" 

"Yes," he said, looking thoughtful. "Actually, I wanted to ask if you could help me court that lovely, flaxen-haired Elf friend of yours." 

"Er..." Aragorn racked his brain for all the blond Elf-maidens whom Eomer had met or seen. He could only think of one. 

"Galadriel? I'm afraid she has departed Middle Earth already. And she is married, besides." 

Eomer shook his head. "Not her. That friend of yours who was always hanging about Gimli the dwarf. Very good archer, tall, always wearing green, highly flexible?" 

Suddenly, Aragorn experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

"Do you mean Legolas?" 

"Yes! That's the one!" 

The sinking feeling grew worse. 

"Um, when you say you are looking for a queen, do you mean a drag queen?" 

"A what?" 

"Eomer, you know that Legolas is a man, do you not?" 

"Ha ha, a good jest, Your Highness. As if a man could have such nice legs." 

"I do not jest." 

The king of Rohan blinked, looked carefully at Aragorn's serious face, and became very pale. 

"I think I am going to be sick." 

Aragorn reached up and tried to pat Eomer on the back. 

"There, there...at least you did not make a move yet." 

"But I did," said Eomer, his face still as white as a wraith. "Gimli offered to send flowers to her...him in my name." 

"I suspect Gimli has much to do with this mess," said Aragorn grimly. "Well, there shall be quite an uproar when we come to South Ithilien." 

"Do we have to go there?" moaned Eomer. 

"Yes, it is necessary to gather the troops who are, er, stationed there. Chin up, son of Rohan! It cannot be all that bad." 

  


* * * * *

  


The king of Rohan   
Our prince in Ithilien   
What lay between them   
Do you need me to fill it in? 

The king sent some flowers   
His words oh-so-pretty   
The prince's response   
Was really quite shi-- 

"Shut up! Shut up! I can't take this anymore!" screamed Eomer. 

"Nor can I," said Aragorn, thinking that even Faramir's bad poetry was better than this travesty of Elvish song. He had never heard such bad lyrics, even during his childhood in Rivendell where lines like _tra-la-la-lally/Come down to the valley_ were considered acceptable and not at all suggestive. 

"I don't know, I kind of like it," Faramir stated mildly, to which Eomer muttered, "You would." At first glance, South Ithilien looked the same as always. But as they approached the dwelling of the Elves they began to hear voices gaily singing, some in Westron and some not, in such a way that Eomer alternately became embarrassed and enraged. They also heard a lot of strange pinging and humming that was, Faramir informed them, coming from the casino. 

"Welcome, my lords," giggled an Elf who looked as if he had had a few too many bowls of wine, "welcome to paradise on Midle Earth, to South Ithilien! Would you like to see our fabled Halls of Fortune--" 

"Halls of sin and villainry," whispered Faramir bitterly. 

"Or," continued the Elf blithely, turning his amused gaze on Eomer, "would you like to see our prince? He would be most pleased to meet with all of you, and one of you in particular." 

"No, he wouldn't!" someone yelled. 

"That is Legolas' voice. Thank you, you may go now," said Aragorn to the Elf, who bowed and reluctantly departed. 

"What a nosy fellow!" sniffed Faramir. "But then, he is an Elf." 

"I thought you liked Elves," Aragorn said distractedly, looking around for Legolas. 

"I did, before they annexed half of my land and lured half of my men into this festering cesspool of decadency." 

"That is nice. Ah, there he is!" 

Legolas looked harried; his hair was actually beginning to become slightly frizzy. 

"You!" he shouted, not bothing with pleasantries. He pointed at Eomer, who began to twitch visibly but otherwise held his composure admirably. "Look, I don't know where you get your ideas, but I am a man! A MAN! Not at woman! Do you know what this has done to my reputation? My people no longer respect me as their leader!" 

"Not that they ever did," Faramir murmured. 

"It was an honest mistake--" began Eomer haltingly, but Aragorn cut him off. 

"It was Gimli, I believe, who fostered in Eomer this false notion about you, Legolas. It is with him that you should have your quarrel." 

"You have to admit that it was a good joke, though," quipped Faramir. 

Legolas glared at the steward, who grinned smugly in reply. 

"Enough of this," said Aragorn sharply, "for there is war afoot, gentlemen. Legolas, will your Elves march with us against the Haradrim?" 

"They will not," he answered haughtily. "There is a reason the Last Alliance of Elves and Men was called the _Last_ Alliance of Elves and Men. It is now against Elvish law for us to aid you." 

"I hate Elvish law," Faramir stated blandly. 

"That is a silly reason to stay your hand," said Aragorn to Legolas. 

"Nonetheless, I must obey our laws." 

"Oh, to Mordor with all of this bandying about!" cried Eomer. "I tire of dealing with intrigue and pregnant sisters and Elves who look like women but are actually men! Let us simply go!" 

And with that, the king of Rohan spun about and marched off somewhere else, presumably to ready for war. 

"I agree," pronounced Faramir. "We waste our time here while the political tides of Harad shift beneath our feet. I shall go now and collect those of my men who have fallen to the temptations of gambling. I shall rouse their warrior spirits if I have to flog it out of them! Good day to you, my lords!" And he too turned and left, leaving only Aragorn and Legolas behind. 

"Well, that was rather rude of them. Now, what was this business about Gimli?" inquired Legolas in a tone that suggested that the Dwarf had very little time left to live. 

"I was told," Aragorn replied, "that Gimli offered to send those flowers in Eomer's name, and that Eomer accepted." 

"I see. Then I shall have to kill the Dwarf." 

"Surely Gimli would not pull such a harmful prank unless he were provoked," said Aragorn archly. 

"Oh, he must still be angry that he lost our bet. You see, I wagered that I would acquire South Ithilien before he acquired the Glittering Caves...and of course I won. Dwarven property laws are _extremely_ complicated and rather communistic." 

"So what did you win from him?" 

"The Arkenstone of Thrain. How do you think I set up my casino?" 

"...No wonder he is so angry with you. Anyway, I must take my leave now. We ride to war on the hour. Are you certain that the Elves will not go with us?" asked Aragorn one last time. 

"Completely certain," answered Legolas. "My father would punish me severely if I did that; most of these Elves are only on loan to me." 

"We will have no more aid then," sighed Aragorn, "but at least I know this border will be well-protected should the Southrons attack. Fare thee well, son of Thranduil!" 

"Fare thee well, son of Arathorn! Have no fear of the outcome of this war - the Haradrim are a silly people anyway." 

"That is true," said Aragorn. "I am sure there is nothing to worry about." 

Somewhere, Arwen winced. 

* * *

  


Author's Notes: 

Before anyone writes in to correct me, I know Eomer is supposed to be married at this point in time. But I like him more as a bucking bachelor than a gelded groom, hur hur hur. I probably will marry him off soon, though. 

The name of Aragorn and Arwen's second daughter, Anariel, was suggested by Avelera. Muchos gracias, Avelera! 

I meant to include the actual war with Harad in this chapter, but decided that an update was due and the chapter was long enough already. Man, I am getting more and more verbose as I write this story. The whole war in Harad thing, by the way, is mostly inspired (some might say ripped off) from Dwimordene's excellent fic _Dynasty_. You can find it at www.henneth-annun.net. 

_So, have you seen that Twin Towers movie yet or whatever it's called?"_

Yep. Seen it twice now. I liked it for the most part, especially the second time I saw it, but I have some major issues with some of the changes PJ and co. implemented. My opinions are spoilerish, so if you haven't seen it yet then for goodness sakes read no further. But if you've seen the movie and you're in the mood for annoying fannish ranting, then scroll down. 

SPOILERS BELOW!   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You've probably already heard this same opinion from dozens of others, but the only thing that really bothered me about the movie was the bit with Faramir. Now, I don't mind them changing the ending of The Two Towers from what it was in the book; at least this way they can use Shelob to spice up the third movie. And let's face it, Frodo and Sam's storyline in Return of the King could use some spicing up. Moreover, I can even accept the change in Faramir's character for "filmic reasons" (quoting screenwriting Philippa Boyens), even though he's one of my favorite characters in the book. But what I can't accept about the movie is that Faramir's character and plotline _don't make logical sense_. Here are the three main parts that don't sit well with me: 

1) When Faramir says he plans to take the ring from Frodo, why doesn't he do just that? Why the hell does he let Frodo wander around the battlefield of Osgiliath without any guards? 

2) What's up with the battle at Osgiliath? It just kind of fizzles out. Aren't the men of Gondor supposed to be outnumbered? It all seems a bit lame compared to Helm's Deep. And where does the Nazgul go? So his steed gets hit by an arrow - yeah, so? What every happened to relentlessly hunting down the ringbearer? 

3) After Frodo almost hands the ring over to the enemy, Faramir decides that Frodo should be trusted to carry the ring into the heart of enemy territory where he's more likely than ever to get caught and hand it over again. Is Faramir stupid or something?   
Okay, presumably this event causes Faramir to realize that the ring is too treacherous for anyone to wield, and it would be a bad idea to send it to Minas Tirith. But don't you think it would be more logical for him to think, "Hey, that stupid hobbit nearly gave the ring away! Dammit, I shouldn't have left that artifact of immense power in the hands of a scrawny and apparently spineless creature and set him loose to wander amongst the enemy! I had better take that ring away from him right now!"   
The filmwriters, I think, are so caught up in the idea of the ring's power that they expect Faramir and the audience to think the same way. When Faramir sees Frodo giving away the ring, he's supposed to attribute that act to the ring's corruptive influence over its bearer. But why should we expect Faramir to think that? In the movie he isn't the learned, insightful man we meet in the book. He's more like Boromir version 2.0. He'd be more likely to think that Frodo is a mental case and should have that ring taken away from him, pronto. Heck, even book-Faramir would probably take the ring from Frodo after that stunt.   
Ironically, I think movie-Faramir's abrupt change of heart would have worked much better in a novel, where we could see into his thoughts and understand him better. In the movie, he just acts like a dumbass. 

Okay, I'll shut up now. 


	11. The Civilities of War

**

Chapter 11: The Civilities of War

**

  


The first thing that Eomer was aware of as he began to awaken was that he was very hot and sticky, which would have been a good thing if he had had a companion, a _female_ companion, lying beside him. But because this was not the case, and because the second thing he realized was that he was chewing on sand, he decided to go to sleep again and pretend that the heat and stickiness and sand were all part of a bad dream. 

Unfortunately, one of his captains chose that moment to open the flap of his tent and let himself in. A wretchedly bright shaft of sunlight snuck through the opening and aimed itself directly at Eomer's face. 

"Eomer King!" hailed the captain. "I apologize for awakening your royal self at such an early hour, but King Elessar has need of you." 

"Peace, Eothain," muttered Eomer, covering his eyes with his hands and thinking to himself that this particular captain had always been too uppity for his own good. "What does Aragorn want? He certainly does not need me to help plan today's route, as he is the only one who knows where on Middle Earth we are anyway." 

"Near Harad, my liege." 

"What?" Eomer blinked blearily several times. "I thought we were already in Harad?" 

"Er...we are. In the region known to us as Near Harad. As in, closer to us than Far Harad." Eothain paused uncomfortably. 

"I knew that," Eomer answered irritably, and left the tent to find Aragorn, dismissing his errant captain on the way out. 

  


* * * * *

  


"Ah, Eomer! I trust you rested well?" queried Faramir with a faintly amused smile. 

Eomer decided that telling him to go to Mandos would not be civilized, even this early in the morning. Or afternoon. Whatever. Eomer's sleep cycles had been completely disrupted by their practice of travelling principally during the cool hours between dusk and dawn and resting during the hottest part of the day. It was the only practical thing to do, but that didn't mean he had to like it. 

"Aragorn," said Eomer shortly, "this had better be good. Why did you call this meeting?" 

The king of Gondor looked up from the map he had been studying and regarded Eomer carefully. 

"Bad night? I mean, day?" 

"Just get on with it." 

"That I shall," said Aragorn, who tapped his finger on a spot on the map. This meant little to Eomer, as he had no idea where they were, but he made a cursory attempt to look interested anyway. 

"Our long-range scouts have reported that an army of Haradrim has ammassed at this location and are headed toward us. They bear the standard of the Pro-Sauronites," reported Aragorn, sounding a little too happy about the fact. "They are at least five thousand strong. A good portion of those are mounted riders." 

Eomer perked up a little at this news. He liked horses. 

However, Faramir's countenance of a sudden became grim; Eomer wondered if he did not like horses. Bastard. 

"It seems the Haradrim who once fought mindlessly against us at Sauron's behest see little need for negotiation," said Faramir. "But what do our Haradric allies--" 

Eomer snorted indelicately. 

"--what do our Haradric allies have to say about this? Do they wish for us to engage the enemy?" finished the Steward, patently ignoring Eomer. 

Aragorn cleared his throat embarrassedly. "Er, to tell you the truth we have not been able to contact them. You know those gamey birds we had for dinner last night? The ones I told you were a rare breed of desert grouse?" 

The other two nodded. 

"Those were our carrier pigeons...they died of heat stroke yesterday. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to cover their cages with the black standard of Gondor...." 

"Then, how do we contact our allies?" demanded Faramir. 

"Oh, no matter," said Eomer heatedly, "We're only embroiled in a foreign war, on foreign soil, hundreds of leagues away from our dubious foreign allies, facing a horrendously large foreign army that no doubt wants to kill us and use our skins for tents so they can get out of this stupidly hot foreign sun, and the only thing we aren't doing is eating foreign food, because there is no food in this Valar-forsaken desert. And now we have a diplomatic nightmare on our hands because someone decided to slow roast our carrier pigeons for dinner! With all due respect, Your Majesty," he added belatedly. 

There reigned an uncomfortable silence after Eomer's admittedly immature outburst. It crossed the king of Rohan's mind that he ought to feel slightly chagrined. It also crossed his mind that chagrin was for the weak and the wrong. 

Faramir broke the silence by coughing and murmuring something like "...rather discriminatory, what?" then saying loudly, "Then we shall have to deal with the army of Pro-Sauronites as we see fit, without consulting our allies." 

"Oh goody," said Aragorn cheerfully. 

It also crossed Eomer's mind that Aragorn had planned this whole mess, the war-mongering bastard. 

They spent the next few hours strategizing and scratching their heads over what sort of nefarious schemes their enemy might have in store. Aragorn, the only one of them who had ever previously been to Harad, offered much sage advice such as "They like to throw sand in your face" and "We could hide behind a sand dune and hope they don't find us" and "There will probably be a sand storm five minutes after the battle starts anyway" and "Did I mention there's sand?" 

Eventually, they must have gotten something done because Eomer was allowed to wander back to his tent, give orders to his men to tie him to a horse if they were to move out, and fall into a well-deserved sleep. 

  


* * * * *

  


"I hate this," Faramir griped. 

"What was that?" 

"I said 'I have waited for this,' Your Majesty," said the Steward loudly. 

Aragorn grinned blithely and replied, "So have I." 

It wasn't that Faramir disliked fighting. Okay, he did, but that alone wasn't sufficient cause for grumbling. He really had no right to be a whiner when he had chosen to come along after being offered the choice of staying at home and running the kingdom. But when he had had to make his choice, he had thought about it for a while and realized that the field of battle, distasteful as it was, was infinitely preferable to dealing with the last stages of Eowyn's pregnancy and Arwen's no doubt iron-fisted command of the council of Gondor. Moreover, he really didn't want to let Aragorn and Eomer fight this war alone. 

"Faramir, do you think I am more dramatically backlit here or more to the left?" 

For more than one reason. 

"I think," said Faramir grimly, "that they will want to kill you from any angle." He nodded at the horde of armed, armored, and ornery Haradrim that faced them in well-ordered and lethal-looking lines of pointy iron. 

"They look remarkably healthy for a purportedly starving nation, don't you think?" remarked Eomer. 

"Hm," said Aragorn, "I think I'll ask them about that." 

And before Faramir could laugh at this joke Aragorn had walked forward, formally hailed the leader of the Pro-Sauronites, complimented him on his health, and asked him how come they weren't starving? 

The Pro-Sauronite's translator rendered Aragorn's words into Haradric; Faramir resisted the urge to tackle him before it was too late. 

The Haradric commander listened intently and then answered something matter-of-factly, which the translator interpreted as follows: 

_"We have been raiding and pillaging many villages lately and have restocked our supplies in very efficient manner. Thank you kindly for taking interest in our health." _

Faramir quirked an eyebrow in astonishment. Maybe Aragorn really did know better than anyone else how to deal with the Haradrim. 

_"But we must ask you, who are you?"_ the man continued. 

Aragorn, though taken aback for a few moments, pronounced in one of his more royal moods, "I am King Elessar Telcontar of the reunited kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. And this is King Eomer of Rohan, and this is Prince Faramir of Ithilien, also Steward of Gondor." 

The Haradrim murmured among themselves for a while, though it wasn't apparent whether they were confused or impressed. 

Finally, their leader said: 

_"Never heard of you, though the others are familiar to us. Could you give a full account of your lineage, if you don't mind? Just for the records."_

Aragorn was beginning to develop a nervous tic. 

"Elessar is a name I have taken but lately," he began. "I am also known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of, erm, Marathon, son of Paragon, son of Ar-Pharazon, son of Arrowroot, son Arrowshirt, son of Arrowhead..." * 

Eomer nudged Faramir and asked, "Is that really Aragorn's pedigree?" 

"No, he's just making it up. His grandfather Arador ran up a few debts whilst in Harad several hundred years ago, and their economy was doing quite well back then so there was this nasty compound interest rate..." 

"...son of Arrrrsomething, son of Arrrggghh--you get the idea." 

Once again the Haradrim were murmuring amongst one another. A relatively scrawny man, whom Faramir took to be a scholar or scribe, showed a bit of paper to his leader, who nodded and finally said: 

_"All right. Your story checks out. Your great-great-grandfather is wanted for mass murder, but we'll let it slide. For now."_

Aragorn acquired a look on his face that was both relieved and worried at the same time, then he pulled himself together and said, "Anyway, shall we get on with business?" 

_"Of course."_

"We have come to warn you," declared the King of Gondor, "that we must take offense at your action against our allies. Unless you immediately surrender and offer recompense, we will be forced to engage your people in battle." 

It was hard to tell from far away, but the Pro-Sauronite leader appeared to shrug. 

_"Well, you know how things go. We came here to fight you anyway, although we expect a sandstorm to start in five minutes."_

"Then we go to battle!" cried Aragorn, raising his sword. His soldiers hastened to do the same. 

But the Haradrim were waving their hands wildly and crossing their arms above their heads and yelling something that Faramir took to mean "No no no no no!" 

"Cowards," said Eomer under his breath. Faramir wasn't sure what to think. 

After both sides had settled down sufficiently, the Pro-Sauronite leader spoke once again. 

_"We will fight you soon, however, it is not right that we should begin until the proper ritual functions have been fulfilled in the most correct way possible."_

Aragorn grimaced, apparently having knowledge of these rituals, and said, "Make it so." 

In spite of himself, Faramir grew interested; there was precious little scholarly writing on the subject of Haradric culture in Gondor, so perhaps this would actually be a chance to learn something new and enlightening. 

The Pro-Sauronite speaker cleared his throat loudly and then, bewilderingly, abandoned the pleasantly modulated pitch he had been using in favor of a screaming rant. 

_"Your stupid country has so much water that you all periodically dunk your heads underwater until you have not enough air provided to your brains and so you are all mentally deficient! Your women look like fat placid cows and your children and old people are so ugly as to make one cry in mortal agony! And don't get me started on the hideousness of your cows--"_ yelled the translator breathlessly, trying to keep up with his leader. 

Faramir blinked and asked, "Are you sure that this is a ritual and not simply an excuse to abuse us?" 

"I honestly don't know," Aragorn confessed, laying a steadying hand on Eomer who had gone red in the face and looked like he was about ready to charge. 

"Do you hear what they are saying about us?" he demanded. 

"Yes, and it's all rather creative," answered Faramir mildly. 

_"Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!"_ ** 

"Now this is just getting personal," said a peeved Aragorn. 

"You have to admit it's different." 

_"And now for something completely different!"_ *** 

And before anyone knew it, an arrow had been released somewhere from among the ranks of the Haradrim. It flew, straight and true, its black shaft gleaming in the harsh sunlight, and buried itself deeply in the translator's back. 

Utter, shocked silence suffused the air. 

Privately, Faramir thought, That would have made more sense if the man were _our_ translator. 

Then, as one, the Haradrim began yelling indignantly and thrusting their weapons in the air. And lo, they charged. 

Argh, argh, though Faramir. 

"Argh, Aragorn!" shouted Eomer. "What sort of diplomat are you!" 

"I have no idea!" the King of Gondor replied. 

After that, there was no more conversation for a while, except for the "I'll kill you!" variety. 

  


* * * * *

  


Aragorn and the Pro-Sauronite leader had not been kidding about the likelihood of a sandstorm. It took longer than five minutes, but just as if it looked like the day had been won for Gondor the wind speed began to increase dramatically and suddenly the sand was everywhere. Fighting no longer being an option, everyone scurried away to take what shelter they could. The Gondorrim and Rohirrim, as luck would have it, had passed by a large cave earlier in the day and withdrew to it before the worst part of the storm had begun. 

"What a bother," groused Faramir, trying to rub the sand out of his eyes. Someone had thrown a fistful of the stuff into his face during the battle. "This war shall last for months at this rate." 

Aragorn had to agree, for as much as he enjoyed the prospect of having a lot more battles, he did not like the thought of having them rudely interrupted all the time. 

"I hate the desert. Even the horses and women are ugly," commented Eomer in frustrated disgust. 

"What, you saw women?" said Faramir. 

"Didn't you? They were all over the battlefield!" 

"There were no women!" 

"Eomer is confused again," Aragorn chimed in. "You see, in his country the women are rather manly, so -" 

"You take that back!" 

"Yes, please do. My wife, as you should remember, is of his country." 

Fortunately, Aragorn was saved from having to make any sort of embarrassing apologies when a field medic approached him and coughed discreetly. 

"My liege, forgive me for interrupting--" 

"Not at all, good Sir! What is your errand?" 

"We dearly need your help, Your Majesty," said the man earnestly yet cheerfully. "The hands of a healer are the hands of the king, or is it the hands of the king are the hands of a healer? I can't remember which, but you get the idea." 

"Yes, of course," said Aragorn. "If you'll excuse me, Faramir, Eomer..." 

  


* * * * *

  


The medic led him to a spacious cavern that was relatively well-lit by their precious supply of oil lamps. The room was filled with a seemingly endless sea of wounded and dying men, all of them (or at least those conscious and able to turn their necks upwards) looking up at him hopefully. He really didn't want to be embarrassed in front of this many people. 

"Perhaps we should start in that corner over there," Aragorn said delicately, pointing out a very shady area to the medic. 

The medic, who seemed permanently euphoric, beamed and said that would do perfectly, as the man in that corner was in terrible shape but still salvageable for someone so proficient in the healing arts as the king. 

As they approached the corner, Aragorn glimpsed the injured man and realized he had gotten in way over his head. The soldier had so many gashes across his body that it seemed like he had more blood on the floor than inside him. But his eyes still gazed steadily at the king. 

"Oh, bless you, King Elessar!" he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, though whether from pain or joy was unclear. 

"Well?" said the medic expectantly. 

"Er...this is very bad," Aragorn stated unnecissarily. "I shall need hot water and some athelas." 

"Come again?" 

"The athelas plant, also known as kingsfoil." 

"Oh, that! Where do we get that?" 

Aragorn began to panic. "Um. In Gondor?" 

"Really." 

"You have none in stock?" 

"No, I had not been aware that it had any healing properties. Listen," said the medic sympathetically, "would you like me to tell them that your abilities do not work in Harad? I can make up a story about your connection to the land fading or something like that." 

"Yes, please," returned Aragorn thankfully. 

As the medic tottered off to make the announcement, the king pondered the day's events and tried to make some sense of what the heck had happened and were there any nice and neat lessons he could learn? The only thing he could come up with was this: War was not as fun as he remembered. He missed Arwen, as odd as that sounded, and he missed Miriel and little Anariel. He wondered how they were doing. 

As if his thoughts had conjured up his wishes, a soldier approached Aragorn and said, "My liege, I have a message for you." 

"What is it?" 

"My message is--that is, that there is a message for you. A letter, to be precise, from the queen. It was delivered to us on horseback just before the battle, but we were instructed not to give it to you until--" 

"From Arwen!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Well, where is it? Let me see it!" 

"Of course, but the queen expressly gave orders to make sure that you were in a calm state when--" 

Aragorn was no longer listening. He almost grabbed the letter from the man then tore it open and began reading quickly. Perhaps an accident had befallen one of the children! Perhaps she had taken ill! Perhaps-- 

"She is pregnant again," moaned Aragorn, and immediately fell into a dead faint. 

The messenger sighed and set about reviving his king, realizing now why the queen had sent smelling salts along with the letter. 

It was going to be a long war. 

* * *

* _"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of, erm, Marathon, son of Paragon, son of Ar-Pharazon, son of Arrowroot, son Arrowshirt, son of Arrowhead..."_

Yes, all of these names aside from Aragorn and Arathorn are wrong. Ar-Pharazon was the last king of Numenor. Arrowroot and Arrowshirt are names borrowed from, _Bored of the Rings_, that great parody of parodies. 

** _"Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!"_

The line is from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Like, duh. 

*** _"And now for something completely different!"_

Also from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.

  


Author's Note: 

Cor, that took a long time to write. Quite sad, considering that this chapter was supposed to be part of the last one. I'm afraid to think how long the next one is going to take, considering that I've got practically nothing planned for it except "Something to do with Aragorn and Arwen's kids, maybe." 

I actually came up with four different titles for this chapter before I settled on one. I liked certain things about all of them so I've listed the alternatives below: 

Fear and Loathing in Near Harad   
Operation Desert Storm   
All's Fair in Love...(as the previous chapter's title) ...And War (As this chapter's title) 


	12. Strike! In the Name of Love!

RECAP: Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer are in Harad having a lovely time fighting massive armies of Haradrim, who are a bunch of weirdoes. Meanwhile, Arwen is pregnant and so is Eowyn. They are also in command while their husbands are away. This can't be good.

* * *

  


**

Chapter 12: Strike! In the Name of Love!

**

  


"I hate this," said Faramir. 

"Boy, I've never heard _that_ one before." 

"Eomer, hush. Just be glad that it's over," Aragorn said wearily. 

It wasn't so much the rigours of battle that wearied the King of Gondor. It was more his constant companions' constant complaining. Even Gimli and Legolas had never been quite this annoying. 

"...and it's not that I mind fighting a war," Eomer was whinging, "it's just that I don't like it when it stretches out to _two bloody years_ because our allies turn out to be a flock of _bloody evil traitors in cahoots with our enemies_." 

"The very enemies we were supposed to be saving them from," added Faramir. 

"The very same. Those bloody evil traitors," Eomer said again, glaring at the sea of corpses they were making their way through. Some of the bodies, disturbingly, were still twitching and groaning, despite the best efforts of the crack squads of Gondorrim and Rohirrim who were carrying away the saveable and hacking away at the unsaveable. 

Eomer grimaced and turned to Aragorn. "We should not let the them off so easily. We cannot predict what they will do in the future; these people are so _bloody weird_." 

Aragorn gave Rohan's king a sharp look. "We have discussed this before. What would you have us do against them? They have surrendered, and their army is crippled. They have agreed to reestablish trade with us, on favourable terms. There is nothing to gain from further fighting." 

"That's what you said last time too. 'Oh, they were misguided, they didn't _mean_ to be in league with Sauron,'" sulked Eomer. 

"Anyway," said Faramir, clearing his throat, "what are our plans for the near future, my lord?" 

Aragorn considered for a moment, then said, "Shall we return to Minas Tirith together to enjoy a feastday? The men certainly deserve a rest." 

"Hell yes!" Eomer agreed. 

"That's not what I meant--but it is a a sound plan, nonetheless," smiled Faramir. "Though may I request that I first return to Ithilien, to see my wife, and then join you in Minas Tirith soon after?" 

"Of course," said Aragorn, remembering that the steward had not even met his firstborn child yet, who was already two years old by now. Speaking of which...Arwen would have given birth to their third child a year ago. How strange that he would come home and not know his own child! And how much would Miriel and Anariel have changed? Would Miriel still dote on him and drive her mother insane? Would Anariel still drool all the time? (probably not, he decided) 

But he would know Arwen still. That woman had changed but little, in all the years he had known her. 

"It would be fun to surprise my wife and show up unannounced, don't you think?" 

Faramir and Eomer gave him funny looks. 

"With all due respect, my liege," said Faramir, which was clearance to say anything he wanted no matter how insulting, "I do not think the queen is the sort of woman who likes unexpected surprises...." 

"Nonsense, Faramir! Remember when I threw that surprise birthday party for her? She loved it!" 

"Because she _knew_ it was coming." 

"She did not!" 

"Please take into account this evidence, Aragorn: when we 'surprised' her she was in her best party attire, she had had her hair done, she even had a speech prepared. And she _must_ have noticed all the horses parked outside." [1] 

Miffed, Aragorn said, "Well, she'll be surprised this time and she'll like it. Just watch." 

Faramir could only roll his eyes.   


* * * * *

  


"Estel, you little brat. You know I hate surprises." 

Arwen refrained (for obvious reasons) from performing a curse that would plague her husband and his offspring for all eternity. She did get to yell at the guard who had delivered the news of the king's return, but the man had scuttled back to his post too quickly for her to have a satisfying session with him. 

She began to pace the room, trying to think up solutions in the few minutes left to her before Aragorn came to the Citadel with his retinue. Occasionally she looked out the window with a bleak sort of hope that something had changed. 

No such luck. The picketers were still out there.   


* * * * *

  


As Aragorn approached the Citadel with his army, he felt a wonderful feeling of expectation building in his chest. His wife and children were behind those familiar white walls. 

It was certainly good to be home. 

The adoring crowds were a nice touch too. Ah, look, a whole bunch of them were waiting for him in front of the gates to the Citadel. Funny, they looked rather upset. Perhaps he should have given advance warning of his return after all. But if they had not been expecting him, then why were they all holding those large poster signs? 

"'Give us money or give us death!'" the mob chanted in unison. 

Beside him, Eomer squinted to read the signs. "'Better working conditions or none at all!' 'Down with the bitch queen!' 'Show me the money!' Those are strange words with which to welcome home a victorious army--hey! Watch the goods!" he yelled as someone shoved a sign in his face. 

Aragorn suddenly wished that he had paid some attention to economic matters in the city instead of leaving absolutely everything to Arwen. Or that Faramir were here to deal with this. Or that he could sneak into the city through the sewers the way he used to. But with an army that might be difficult. 

Amidst the commotion, he demanded, "What in Manwe's name is going on?" 

One of the guards manning the Citadel gates made a sort of burbling sound. 

"They're, um, you know, um, the militant unionist radical socialist tradesmen from all the, the what-do-you-call-them, guilds, in the city. Um. Sorry, we meant to tell you earlier, but you just showed up out of blue and all." 

A more composed guard standing nearby added, "They're calling themselves the Union of Minas Tirith's Unions, or UMTU for short. They've not let anyone in or out of the Citadel for days now." 

"Damn right we haven't! We won't bloody stop until you give us our bloody dues!" yelled a protestor whom Aragorn recognized as the master of the Builder's Guild. 

"Master Builder," said Aragorn loudly, "good day to you. May I ask what your complaint might be?" 

The burly guildmaster seemed taken aback at being addressed civilly. 

"Well, Your Highness," he began, "we have already filed a formal complaint through all the proper channels, and all the details are there in the paperwork...but to outline the basics, we're very, _very_ upset with the policies set in place by the current municipal administration regarding the tariffs placed on imported goods and services, or rather the lack of them. This year alone the tariffs in my guild's sector have been lowered by _four percent_, which, combined with reduced government support to the city's private sector has led to a staggering decrease in productivity across the board..." 

By this point a glazed look had settled across Aragorn's face. He heard nothing for the next few minutes. The Master Builder, fortunately, didn't seem to notice his liege's lack of attention because he continued to ramble on. 

"...an absolutely shocking outrage! Shocking! And in conclusion..." 

This was Aragorn's cue to start listening again. 

"...we, the Union of Minas Tirith's Unions, or UMTU for short, demand a _lot_ of compensation." 

Aragorn's blinked. 

"Riiiigghht," he began. "Right-o." He looked at Eomer, who shrugged, clearly bored and in his not-my-problem mode. No help there. 

"Perhaps," said Aragorn slowly, "I should first consult the Queen, who is, after all, in charge of the business administration of the city..." He found himself trailing off amidst the angry muttering of "Who do you think started this mess?" and "That bitch queen." 

"Or, hm, perhaps we should wait for the arbitration of the Steward Faramir?" he added weakly. 

The Master Builder looked unimpressed. "Well, where is the Steward? I thought he was supposed to be with you. He's not dead, is he?" 

"Dead?" said Aragorn in surprise, and immediately regretted it as a great murmur of rumour rose around him. 

"What did they say?" 

"The Steward is dead, they say." 

"The Steward is dead!" 

"I heard he was killed by an oliphaunt in Harad!" 

"I heard he died of poison!" 

"I heard that his wife is a horse-wench!" 

"I heard that shoes are on sale at Goodie Cooper's barn!" 

"Goodie Cooper! Her cows produce the best leather in town! What ho! Why are we standing around here for? Let us shop!" 

"This is stupid," said Eomer. Then, in a louder voice, he yelled, "The Steward is not dead, but you lot will be if you don't let us in now!" 

"Oh yeah, you and what army?" 

Eomer gestured at their army. 

Aragorn sighed. 

"Master Builder," he addressed in his I-am-the-king-so-shut-up-and-listen voice, "I order you to let us through immediately. We shall negotiate with you _after_ we have rested and have a better understanding of what is going on." 

The man was clearly hesitant in his reply. "We do not wish to compromise the picket line, my liege…" 

"But you must," said Aragorn sternly. 

"Very well. But your party will be the last that we shall let through." 

"Understood."   


* * * * *

  


"Hello, Arwen." 

"Hello, Estel." 

They stared at each other. There were so many things they were supposed to say, so many poignant words of affection or anger or who knows what, if only they could reach across the endless gulf that time and distance had wrought-- 

Two and a half seconds later, they were in each other's arms. 

"I missed you so much!" 

"I missed you more!" 

"Did you know there is a strike going on outside?" 

"…Of course I know, do I look like a fool? We will talk about it later." 

"Pappy!" 

"Miriel!" 

"Pappy!" 

"Miriel!" 

"How are you, my queen?" 

"Oh hello, Eomer. I did not see you there." 

"I have been getting that a lot today." 

"Welcome back, father." 

Aragorn looked downward at a tiny replica of Arwen. 

"My goodness, Anariel…you can talk now!" 

The tiny replica of Arwen glared in such a way as to put her mother to shame. 

"Anariel-dearest, do not make that face, it will freeze that way." 

"As if you are one to talk, Arwen." 

"Did you say something, Estel?" 

"Nothing! I mean, no." 

"Dearest, you must come and meet Aearien and Aduilien." 

"...Who?" 

"Your daughters." 

"...Wha?" 

"Did no one tell you? I had twins." 

"...Oh. Well, that was my cue to faint." 

And he did.   


* * * * *

  


A week later, Aragorn was having breakfast when he took delivery of the following cheery notice: 

  


_ We have the Steward (rumours of his death were greatly exaggerated) and his wife and child. They unwisely attempted to cross the picket line. _

Sincerely,   
The Union of Minas Tirith's Unions 

  


"Oops," said the king. "I knew I was forgetting something. 

Arwen looked up from her bowl of fruit and gave him an arch look. "What have you there, husband?" 

He mutely handed over the note, which she scanned quickly and then discarded. "Well," she said, "all for the best anyway. Can you imagine the air of smugness we would have had to endure being cooped up in here with them? They managed to have a boy-child on their first go." 

Aragorn had to agree.   


* * * * *

  


_Oh we'll march day and ni~ight   
By Ecthelion's white tower,   
They're evil capitalists   
And for that we're real sour._ [2] 

Arwen looked out the window at the singing, marching picketers and resisted the urge to throw something at them. Doing so would not be constructive, she knew, since she'd already tried it a few times in the past hour. Most of the throwable objects in the Citadel were so valuable that when she hurled one at the picketers they would just pick it up and say something like, "Ooh, solid oak!" and then they would sell it to pay the healing bills for whomever she had hit. The victim would be picketing again the next day with a bandage on his head and a look of righteous fury on his face. Totally unproductive. 

She suspected the bad singing was supposed to get on her infamously bad nerves, but growing up in Rivendell had made her mostly immune to any sort of lyrical attack. 

"Bother," she said out loud. "Everything is solid oak in here." 

A clanking of armour and a sudden onslaught of horse odour told her that Eomer was approaching. 

"To what gracious Vala," she said without turning around, "do I owe my undying thanks and praise for granting me the pleasure of a private visitation from the most esteemed King of the Mark?" 

She looked over her shoulder haughtily, for effect, and realized her sitting room door was still closed. 

"Sorry, milady, what did you say?" asked Eomer, his voice muffled through the solid oak door. 

"Nevermind," she said loudly. "You may enter." 

A grunt, a jangle, and a thump sounded from behind the door. 

"Um...I think it's locked." 

"For goodness sakes," she grumbled and signalled at her maid in the corner, who was not there because Arwen had sent her away, she remembered belatedly. Huffing in annoyance, the queen stalked over to the door and flung it open. 

"What?" said Eomer "What did I do now? It was not my fault, I swear. And why are you looking up for?" 

"Heavenly guidance, to help me suffer fools such as he who stands before me," she didn't say. Instead she gestured wordlessly for Eomer to enter and take a seat. 

"Thanks," he replied cheerfully. "Is this chair solid oak? Very nice." 

"Yes, I'm having it burned tomorrow." 

"Oh. Well, have I told you about the time we set fire to this very large pile of Uruk-hai? The smell was just _awful_-- 

"I can imagine. I apologize for being blunt, but I am rather busy trying to end the strike, as you know. For what reason did you seek me out, Eomer?" 

The King of the Mark actually blushed and twisted his hands together nervously. 

"You see," he began, uncharacteristically hesitant, "that is, I need your help in a matter of some little importance. I do not wish to distract you from your duties, of course, but we so rarely meet that I--" 

"It is no trouble at all," said Arwen quickly, becoming interested despite herself. She felt a bit guilty now about lying about how busy she was--throwing objects out the window didn't count as being busy. 

Eomer gazed at her earnestly, eye to eye, and said, "I need a wife." 

A moment later he found himself hauled bodily out of the room and the solid oak door shut in his face. 

"I already have a husband, you ignoramus. Valar help me, I don't know _where_ you people get your ideas about Elves--" 

"That's not what I meant!" he yelled back. "I need you to _help_ me find a wife!" 

After a moment the door swung open sheepishly. 

"My apologies," said the queen. "I've been rather on edge lately. And yes, I will help you. I think I could use the distraction." 

"Many thanks," replied Eomer with a gracious bow. "May your ancestors smile upon you." 

"Oh, they do." 

"Right." 

"So what sort of woman are you looking for?" 

"Human." 

"That's a good start," answered Arwen slowly. 

"I've had enough of Elves, no offence." 

"Oh yes, my husband told me about your little episode with Legolas. I take it you have exhausted all your options at Edoras?" 

"Yes, all the women are _very_ exhausted there. Heh heh." 

"You men. Always telling the same jokes. So then you wish for a Gondorian woman of noble birth? Any preferences regarding colouring or size?" 

"I would prefer someone with something like a richly dark mane of hair offset by pale flawless skin, to make a nice contrast to my own colouring," he said, pointing at his ruddy face and cornbread hair. 

"Hm," Arwen hmmed, twirling a strand of her rich dark hair around a finger, "that sounds rather familiar. Well, that sort of woman isn't going to just walk up and declare herself to you--" 

A horn sounded gaily from outside the window. The two nobles paused and looked outside, where an attractive woman with a richly dark mane of hair offset by pale flawless skin led a retinue of servants and soldiers through the city streets toward the Citadel. Eomer gasped and stared at her, enraptured. 

"Never have I seen such a vision of loveliness before this day!" he sighed. 

"Really," said Arwen in annoyance. She waved her hand around vaguely and pointed at herself, but Eomer did not notice her in his distracted state. Sighing, Arwen said, "Actually, you have met that woman before, at your sister's wedding. She is Lothiriel, cousin to Faramir and daughter of Imrahil. I think you even spoke to her." 

"Oh, that explains it," said Eomer, not taking his eyes off Lothiriel, who was really just a speck from this distance. "I was completely sloshed at Eowyn's wedding. I don't remember a thing about it." 

"Figures," replied Arwen, her arms crossed but her eyes focused sharply on Lothiriel. Come to think of it, Imrahil's daughter _had_ sent a message to say that she would be coming to visit, but Arwen had forgotten about it completely amidst the commotion of the strike. Oops. 

Eomer suddenly gasped. "Alas! The picketers have laid hands on the beauteous Lothiriel!" 

Oops. She had forgotten about them, too. 

Still...this turn of events could turn out to be fortuitous, or at least amusing. Arwen noted Eomer's flushed features, his hands gripping the window sash tightly. A droplet of sweat slid down his temples and took up residence on his chin. What a transparent man. 

"She is unmarried, you know," she said, not wasting any subtlety on someone who clearly would not appreciate it. 

He nodded slightly, eyes wide, and enquired, "Does she have any other suitors?" 

"No serious ones, at the moment." 

"Is she intelligent?" 

"Not really, but she is well educated." 

"Her age?" 

"A secret, but I can tell you that it matches yours well." 

"Rich?" 

"Very." 

And then Eomer surprised her by turning to look into her eyes with an unexpected intensity. 

He asked, slowly and carefully, "Does she like horses?" 

Arwen gave him an incredulous look and replied, "Yes?" 

"SCORE!" 

The next thing she knew Eomer had hauled himself over the window ledge, grabbed onto the ivy clinging to the walls, and begun climbing/sliding down the thirty or so metres of treacherously empty space to the ground below. 

"Ow ow ow ow ropeburn ow ow," she heard him say. 

"Eomer, you fool! Get back here!" Arwen screamed, but for once screaming did not avail her. "Hang your whole damnable country of fools!" she cursed instead. "Hang them to Mandos's Halls! Hang them to Sauron and Morgoth and...and Ungoliant! Hang them all to--" 

"Um," said Aragorn's voice behind her, "is there something I should know about? Whatever it is, it's not my fault, I swear." He gave a nervous cough. 

"Estel," she greeted him curtly, "that fool Eomer is climbing down the ivy on the Citadel walls. He will get caught by the picketers! And if he breaks his neck--" 

"Ooh, that has to hurt," said Aragorn, looking out the window and wincing. 

"Curses. I really do not want to look. How bad is it?" Arwen asked, massaging her forehead. 

"He fell about...seven or eight metres, although it is difficult to tell from here. I think he is unconscious but not badly hurt. His chainmail may have helped. And...goodness, is that Lothiriel being held by the picketers? What is she doing here?" 

"Visiting." 

"And more besides," said the king. "She is struggling now against her captors...good girl! She is free! She is running to Eomer...she is almost there...now she is checking him over...checking him _all_ over..." 

"No lurid details, please." 

But Aragorn was hardly paying attention to her, which would have irked her if she hadn't already passed into a state of advanced vexation. 

After a tense pause he continued, "I think Eomer is awakening...yes, he is definitely awake now. _Very_ awake. And...ooh, that has to hurt." 

"You already said that." 

"True, but this time it is because Lothiriel slapped him." 

"I should have known that would happen," said Arwen, who decided it was safe to look down now that her husband had confirmed that Eomer was fine and unlikely to file a lawsuit against Gondor. 

Dol Amroth, however, might find reason to go to war against Rohan, or at least call for a restraining order against its king. Arwen, Aragorn, and the picketers watched mutely as Eomer hit on fair Lothiriel. 

Who didn't slap Eomer again, remarkably. Arwen wasn't sure what he said to her, but even from up here she could tell it was working. 

"He is approaching his goal...she is beginning to relent...he is taking her hand...!" said Aragorn breathlessly. 

"I cannot believe it." 

"...and now she has taken his hand in return...they are helping each other up...and they are embracing! SCORE!" 

Aragorn whooped in a most un-kingly fashion and did something that would be called an 'end zone dance' at some point in the distant future. 

"Men," was all Arwen could say.   


* * * * *

  


Eomer and Lothirel were taken away by the picketers, of course, but the newly-formed couple hardly seemed to care. 

"Young love," sighed Arwen, "is so sickening." 

"Now, dearest, do not be jealous." 

"I am _not_ jealous." 

"Do you remember when I was courting you?" 

"Unfortunately, yes." 

"Me too." 

The royal couple sat there morosely for a while, staring out the window at the sea of picketers. 

"I feel old. I do not seem to like war and conflict anymore. Did I tell you what a horrid time we had in Harad?" 

"Yes, dear." 

"Do you think if we wait long enough they"--Aragorn gestured at the picketers--"will just go away?" 

Arwen raised an eyebrow and asked, "How did you ever get to be king again?" 

"Because you helped me write my resume." 

"Exactly." 

They sat and pondered some more. 

"So what are we going to do about this situation? They now have Faramir, Eomer, Eowyn and Lothiriel--four rather important prisoners, and all we can do is throw furniture out the window at them, which they just sell in order to fund their campaign. And I know that any day now Faramir is going to start helping them--that man has always had socialist leanings. We are like rats, trapped in this citadel, unable to strike back, unable to...what is it?" 

Arwen sat up straight, an evil gleam in her eye. 

"Who says we can't we strike back?"   


* * * * *

  


Arwen glanced around the hall surreptitiously. Everything and everyone was in its place. She cleared her throat to gain the people's attention, and began the opening ceremony. 

"We are gathered here today to celebrate the coming together of two who are very near and dear to my heart: The Union of Minas Tirith's Unions and the Municipality of Minas Tirith. 

A lot of people grumbled. 

"Now, I know we have had our differences in the past," she continued blithely, "but I truly believe that today, with all of these fine members of the community gathered in council, we shall reach a reconciliation that is mutually agreeable to all parties." 

The Master of the Artisan's Guild stood and said politely, "Reach reconciliation? My well-sculpted ass we will." 

"Your well-sculpted ass will be full of crossbow bolts in about five seconds if you do not behave," Arwen stated with a sweet smile. 

The members of UMTU looked around and noticed that the Citadel guards who had been standing around, looking ceremonial, were now holding lots of very pointy weapons. 

"I have just received word," Arwen announced, "that my elite soldiers have retrieved the Steward and the King of the Mark from your headquarters. Now, (here her smile sent shivers down the backs of everyone present) "it is time to negotiate."   


* * * * *

  


Not everyone went home happy, but the people who mattered were very happy. 

Arwen sat back in her council chair languidly. "That went rather well." 

"It did," replied Aragorn, equally languid. "Why did I not think to use coercive force?" 

"Because you are not the one wearing the pants in this relationship." 

"...But I am the one wearing..." 

"A figure of speech, Estel." 

"Ah." 

And he leaned over and kissed her. 

"...What was that for?" 

"Because I love you, and I missed you." 

"...You did." 

And she leaned over and kissed him. 

"...Mmmm..." 

"...Hrmrmm..." 

"I just had a wonderfully...suggestive idea," said Arwen. 

"So did I. Why don't we give the twins names that people will actually be able to remember?" 

And Arwen leaned over and slapped him. 

"Ow. Hey, Arwen, wait! It was merely in jest! I think you chose lovely names, very fitting! Arwen...!" 

And Arwen let him into the bedroom anyway.

  


* * *

[1] _"And she must have noticed all the horses parked outside."_ Something I've noticed about surprise parties is that the gazillion cars parked outside the victim's house usually give the whole thing away. 

[2] The picketing song is adapted from an episode of the Simpsons in which the power plant employees go on strike to get their dental plan back. Homer is the union leader. You know, the episode where Lisa gets braces?

  


Author's Notes: Ack, it's been over a year now. My apologies. 

The whole idea of having a strike in Minas Tirith was inspired by the Teaching Assistants at my school having a bloody annoying strike last year. What a fiasco that was. Barricades, people getting bumped by cars, chainsaws...and it all ended very anti-climactically. 

Silverfox, thanks for pointing out that the firstborn kid of the King and Queen of Gondor gets to be the official heir. I didn't know that. Good thing this story is already AU or else I'd be having a hernia right now. Also, thank you for the female Elven names! I'll use at least one of them in future chapters. 

And thanks to Artemis for naming the twins! According to Artemis, Aearien means "daughter of the sea" and Aduilien means "daughter of twilight." 

To the anonymous reviewer who wanted to know where to read _Bored of the Rings_…well, as far as I know the whole book isn't online, but you can read excerpts of it at . If you want to read ALL of it, then go buy it.

  



End file.
